


Adeste Fideles

by nocturneequuis



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And beginnings, Gen, It's Christmas time, M/M, Past Fic, a story of beginning beginnings, and an angel trying to find his way, for the ficcy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28258512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturneequuis/pseuds/nocturneequuis
Summary: When Crawley tells Aziraphale of the arrival of the Son of God, Aziraphale finds himself having some concerns. Who will this Be? What will this Mean? What role does an Angel have to play? Though he doesn't have any answers, he will rely on his faith and try not to make too many mistakes as he takes his part in welcoming a strange new Miracle into the world.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. Adeste Fideles

It was a bright and beautiful day in the field outside of Athens. The sky above was a pale robin’s egg blue, unmarred by cloud. and a stunning breeze swirled up from the cerulean waters below, brining with it the briny scent of the restless sea and the cry of shorebirds. Even the sun had a mild temperament, warming pleasantly the face and arms.

It was such a fine day, in fact, that it had inspired the more adventurous members of the Emvolo Palaestria to take today’s practice outside. The _skamma,_ or wrestling pits, had been miraculously easy to dig. Which wasn’t precisely a waste of a miracle. After all, Aziraphale thought, popping another olive into his mouth and humming at the surprise crumble of goat cheese; there was nothing healthier or more invigorating than sport! And if doing sport under Her own brilliant sky and warm sun didn’t inspire wonder and awe and worshipful feelings, he didn’t know what would!

He watched the young men keenly in their sport— well, observed was the more technical term, as he had for the past couple of months, trying to suss out if any one were stronger than his fellows than he ought to be, or perhaps let out some divine spark, or called animals to do his bidding and beat his opponent. So far they all seemed relatively normal and Aziraphale had the suspicion his quest would come to naught, but in the meantime he would keep a beady on them until he was sure.

“Oh, well done, Isaonis!” He called, clapping his hands as the young, brilliantly blond man wriggled out from under his opponent’s oil slick grip, thereby avoiding a pin. The young man grinned with very white teeth. This proved to be his undoing as he was soon plowed under by his adversary, though oddly his grin turned into a merry laugh on the way. Well, pride goeth before the fall, Aziraphale thought contentedly. He was sure a moral lesson was in there somewhere that Isaonis would keep until the end of his days. Also a very interesting bruise to remind him in the meantime!

A hawk wheeled overhead and Aziraphale turned his head to watch it, closing his eyes as another gentle breeze stirred his hair. Truly, She was in a good mood today. Or at least not in a bad one. She’d been Moody of late, sending angels hither and yon, pushing forth, pulling back— As if she couldn’t make up Her mind of what She wanted to be doing. Not that Aziraphale knew for sure of course. It was all speculation that he had gleaned from Gabriel’s more strained expression than normal and the way Michael’s robes seemed continually stroked with blood, her face a hard mask.

Granted it had been almost a hundred years since he’d seen any of them. It wasn’t that he was disgraced per se, or at least not in so many words. Yes, he hadn’t always been up to snuff in the past, the Babel Incident for one, the Abraham fiasco, goodness! He’d never run up a mountain so fast! Poor little Jacob in a well, which was hardly his fault that he’d believed the brothers when they’d told him otherwise… But he would have thought that any disgrace might have been expunged by the forty-year trek in the desert, especially for so minor an offense as being distracted by a tiringo fruit brought by one of the Ethiopians while the Chosen danced around a golden calf. And to his credit it wasn’t as if he had _meant_ to stay in the desert for so long, but the Promised Land was hardly something one could find on a map!

At any rate if this was a sort of punishment, well! Aziraphale was perhaps not feeling as punished as he may have been. This collection of city states and kingdoms known in some quarters collectively as Hellas was a bit of a backwater, true. But the food was amazing and the theater divine! Almost literally! Yes of course there were the expected religious plays about the comings and goings of quote unquote gods… Though Lord knew they were hardly any better than men! There were apparently few beds Zeus _didn_ _’t_ warm, which made Aziraphale’s job ….well tedious was a horrible word to use. Interesting perhaps was better.

In the mean time, he had worked extra hard to get back in Heaven’s good graces. He’d performed the odd miracle, not too many since goodness knew he didn’t want to form _another_ mystery cult, kept humans on the straight and narrow as much as he could— though with this lot one was a lot easier than the other.

“No cheating!” he called to an aggressive pair, in which the larger was using an illegal headlock. They broke apart and kissed to make up, apologizing to one another very deeply indeed. Aziraphale stood back, feeling contented and that, for once perhaps, he was in the right place at the right time. For once, he was doing things _properly_. He smirked to himself and ate another olive, sucking the juice of it off his fingers.

“What,” said a very familiar voice behind him that he hadn’t heard in a century or more. “The heaven is that.”

Aziraphale took a moment to school his expression, since a smile did not do in this situation and turned to regard the demon as nonchalantly as he could.

“Aren’t you a sight,” he said, trying to sound disapproving. Crawley was wearing a short black chiton, well above the knees, but rather than a simple leather or cord belt across the waist, a gold cord wrapped around his hips and tied under the bust. The gold matched the straps of his sandals that criss-crossed up very well defined calves. A ruby eyed serpent coiled up his forarm while similar ones dangled from his ears and his hair was pulled back sharply and bound up in a riot of burnished red curls behind a black and gold head piece. In him commoner and noble, man and woman. Aziraphale clicked his tongue.

“Humans aren’t going to know whether you’re coming or going dressed like that.”

“Great, isn’t it?” Crawley grinned with teeth whiter then Isanosis’s. “Humans are so easy to mess with.”

“Yes, I imagine you have quite an easy time of it, the poor creatures. They have it hard enough.”

“Eh, they don’t seem to mind too much,” Crawley said. The wind plucked cheekily at the edge of his short chiton and sent one young man tripping head first into a _skamma_. A click of the fingers prevented no more than a bruised ego. Though he certainly deserved far more for such flagrant lust. Of course Crawley was tempting but that didn’t mean one gave into it so readily.

“And that,” said Aziraphale, watching Crawly pace around the stone marker he’d asked about before. “Is a Herm, named after one of their gods Hermes. A messenger and a wayfinder among other things. It’s really quite fascinating.”

“Seems like he’ s a bit of a knob,” said Cralwey with a grin, referring to the Herm’s rather obvious appendage .

“Very funny,” said Aziraphale, trying not to sound as if he actually meant it. He hid the need to giggle behind a stern frown and looked down at the demon as best he could given the height difference. Crawley’s grin faded a little and he tilted his head as if to say: ‘eh, I tried’. Honestly, Aziraphale wanted to give it to him, but no! He would not allow the demon a single toehold into his life.

“What on Earth are you doing here anyway? What mischief are you getting up to? Nothing good, I imagine.”

“I mean, no, I’d rather not be turned inside out and used as a chew toy thanks,” said Crawley. “But nothing too too bad this time, just a little malignant transportation.” He broke off and looked around. “This isn’t Sparta, is it?”

“No. Athens. Sparta is that way.” He nodded in the aforementioned direction. “Dare I ask who or what you are malignantly transporting?”

“Woman named Helen. Wants to go with her lover. Thought I might sort it out for them.” There it was, the return of the dangerous grin. Well! Aziraphale as an Angel of the Lord refused to be the least bit charmed.

“Not out of charity I expect,” he said, trying to make his voice chilly. Crawly didn’t seem to notice.

“Nah, going to cause a scuffle. Boil the blood a little of the local nobility. Hell likes a good battle now and then and there’s rumors of them starting a tally.” He made a face at this and while Aziraphale didn’t quite know what he meant by that last part, it likely wasn’t good.

“Yes… Heaven likes a good battle too…” Oddly enough. “Righteously done, of course.”

“Of course,” said Crawley with an expression Aziraphale was beginning to understand as sarcasm. He elected to ignore it.

“It’s amazing what humans will do for lovers,” said Aziraphale with a sigh. He couldn’t even imagine what side would push that war. Hell for the bloodshed? Heaven for the aspect of love? It depended on how the love came about really, and he was beginning to think it the war was more on Hell’s side as, after all…. “It may well be her interest may be in a more…southern direction.”

A furrow appeared between Crawley’s brows

“Crete?”

“No. I mean—” He clamped his lips shut. As an Angel he shouldn’t say it. That line of joking was beneath him and anyway Heaven had been coming down hard on procreation for the pleasure of it. Which made little sense to him. Not that it had to make any sense. It was likely for the Best and certainly humans with no restraints did awful things, but sometimes, if he were a more wondering sort, he would have wondered at the seemingly arbitrary nature of it all. Fortunately he didn’t wonder and knew that, even if he couldn’t understand it, it was part of the plan.

“Well nevermind,” Aziraphale said at the end. “I’m sure your superiors will be pleased.”

Crawley’s eyebrows rose and a smile touched his face that was a little more difficult to ignore than the sarcasm. Aziraphale looked away, pursing his lips.

“You’re not going to stop me?”

He supposed he ought to, but he was not getting involved in that sort of thing again. He’d drawn the line when he hadn’t reported Delilah’s desire to give Samson a little trim. Honestly, he hadn’t meant she’d thought to cut off _so_ much, and the man had looked more like a bear than a human being. Was it so wrong to wish to see someone’s eyes?

“Unfortunately I’m rather stuck here at the moment. Chasing down demi-humans. Children of gods, supposedly.” He sighed and looked out over the sporting men. “Apparently there have been so many reports of such things that Heaven was growing concerned and wanted me to see what might be happening.” And so far, not much. Oh, he had heard the rumors of Great Heroes past and it seemed that everyone and their goat claimed _some_ connection to the deities that supposedly made their home on Olympus. Even Isaonis claimed that his great uncle’s sister-by-marriage had a stunning affair with Poseidon which produced a girl-child who grew to have an immense talent for pearl diving. She was on his list to track down as well, though she lived in Lesbos and he was not up to making the trek just yet.

“Anyway,” he sighed. “I’ve been searching all up and down the peninsula. I’ve only just got back from Scytha looking for someone named Achilles? And no luck there.” Though the woman of Scytha were built to last it seemed. “Fortunately I had a young gentleman from Ithaca as my guide who knew the area, otherwise it would have been _quite_ the odyssey.”

“And what are you supposed to do when you find them?” said Crawley.

“Hm?” Aziraphale blinked. “Well, I don’t know.” He chuckled a bit. “They… didn’t actually get that far. I was just told to search and report back what I found.”

“Mmm.” Crawley tapped his knuckles lightly against the Herm’s stone curls. “Probably clearing out the competition.” He gave Aziraphale a curious slantwise look. “Don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think!” Aziraphale said, feeling rather ruffled by the implications. He had a feeling Crawley was asking something else altogether. He didn’t know what yet but he wasn’t about to indulge in it. “Nothing can compete with the Almighty and She’s hardly the jealous sort.”

“Ha!” the burst of a laugh rang through the air and brought more than one curious head out of the _skamma_ pits to see what creature had made such a noise. Aziraphale flushed, shifting a little to block the demon from view. They’d already had one incident and didn’t need any more.

“Well, alright, but She is not going to go after Demi-humans, if it is true. After all it’s hardly their fault.”

“And if it is true, who created the ability to make Demi-humans in the first place? Hm?” Crawley tilted his head to the side. “Seems to me that THEY like to lure humans into trouble and then punish them for it.”

“It seems to me that humanity is given a choice to follow a wicked path or a righteous one.” Aziraphale lifted his head and regarded Crawley coolly down the length of his nose. “Moreover the one who is luring humans into trouble seems to be _you_.”

“Easy as breathing,” Crawley said, sounding proud of the fact. Aziraphale would like to knock him down a peg or two. Perhaps he ought to do a bit of thwarting in this Helen situation. The serpent’s smirk faded as if he knew and he moved around the Herm again, moved around Aziraphale too as if giving him a once over, perhaps trying to ruffle him further. Aziraphale remained staunchly unruffled, staring out over the wandering sea.

“But it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” said Crawley.

“Not me.”

The demon rolled his eyes. “No of course. Never you. But generally speaking. It would make sense to clear out the competition considering one of THEIR own is on the way.” He pressed his lips flat, tilting his head the other way. “Son of God and all that? Should be happening soon right?”

“Son of God? One of Her own? Whatever are you talking about?”

Crawley shrugged as if to be nonchalant, but his gaze seemed to be boring holes into Aziraphale’s.

“Just a rumor that I heard. All the rage downstairs.” He grinned, perhaps a trifle uneasily? “Heard that your boss is having a kid.”

“I beg your pardon! You can’t _seriously_ be suggesting that She would—! That She would ever deign to—!” He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t even think it! Yes, for the lesser gods, if there were such a thing, mean and simple things that they were, but Her! To… to muck about with Mankind! “I’ve never heard of such a outrageous thing! The power disparity _alone_ doesn’t bear thinking about! And that poor Whomever would be pulled to absolute particles in Her Presence! It’s not like the Garden, you know, She doesn’t walk about in the cool of the evening— and certainly doesn’t walk about in the cool of the evening to rattle the bushes with…with some human.”

“Rattle the bushes?” A dark eyebrow arched. Aziraphale felt his flush return full force.

“Oh, you know what I mean! The rams and the ewes!” Both eyebrows this time. Did Crawley really not understand? Aziraphale refused to believe he didn’t! After all in his line of work and so sensuous a form, it was a wonder he didn’t have to beat humans off with a stick. Still he couldn’t help but make one more go at it. “Why Helen of Sparta wants to be reunited with her lover.”

“Better than the one she’s married to, I imagine. Not that I’ve ever met him.”

Oh, nevermind. Crawley was yanking his cord and he refused to indulge in it any longer.

“The point is that the Almighty would hardly indulge in such a thing and I ought to box you in the ear for even suggesting!” Not that he would, but he _ought_ to. Only he was fairly sure Crawley was bound together with thin reeds and a demonic prayer and didn’t want to see him crumple like sugar in the rain. He also didn’t like the way Crawley seemed to pale and edged his foot back as if he really thought Aziraphale would do it. Well, he couldn’t take the threat back, now could he? Not with so many witnesses. Though he dearly wished he could.

“It wasn’t me who suggested it,” said Crawley. “It wasn’t even Hell. I heard it from one of yours.”

“One of ours?” Who in the world could Crawley have heard it from? Not another angel, surely.

“Yeah, one of your prophets. Isaac… Isaiah…” He wrinkled his nose. “Something like that.”

“Isaiah? Are you sure?” Aziraphale hadn’t met Isaiah in person. He had been sent elsewhere at the time doing something of little importance, but even so he knew the human had found some kind of favor in the Almighty’s eyes. Rumor was that he had even spoken with the Almighty, though that was not a rumor spoken of often because it made everyone a little tetchy. She had been rather distant these days, even, it seemed, to the most prominent of the Host.

In any case there had been quite a To Do when Isaiah had arrived upstairs— even Aziraphale had been told to attend. Even then most of it was standing at strict attention with his Platoon as the human was paraded past the assembled angels and looked as if he might lose consciousness if anyone said so much as ‘boo’.

Still—!

“Perhaps he got a little confused…” No… he oughtn’t even suggest that. Humans were fallible of course but prophecies were another thing altogether. “What did Isaiah say precisely,” said Aziraphale after a moment’s thought. Perhaps Crawley had gotten it wrong, or misinterpreted.

“Therefore the Lord himself shall give you a sign; Behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.” It was a beautiful recitation, and for a moment Aziraphale was caught up in it, the sonorous tones of Crawley’s voice, the way the words seemed to manifest like warm honey in the air. The wind picked up, stirring his curls and Aziraphale had the dreadful urge to tug them free, to see them spill into the breeze like a cascading waterfall.

The demon’s dark eyebrows rose.

“Well? What do you make of it?”

That there was the touch of the Almighty still on him somehow, Aziraphale thought, in the red of his hair and the yellow-gold of his eyes. But then he realized Crawley had meant the recitation. The, for lack of a better word, prophecy.

What _did_ he make of it? He recited the words silently to himself. It certainly _sounded_ like a prophecy. If the demon was being fully honest with him. After all, Crawley _was_ the enemy. They were on opposite sides and all of that.

Only, why would he lie?

What could he hope to gain about telling him of this? If anything Aziraphale would have to be extra vigilant to expunge all evil from Earth and if they forced his hand, well, he would have to find a way to tactfully avoid it for a while.

If Crawley was speaking the truth—

If there really was a child of God on the way…

And not just a Child of God but… somehow…

“Immanuel…God is With us…isn’t it?”Aziraphale said, half to himself. If that meant what he thought it meant, why!

Why! This child would be something completely new! Part of the essence of the Almighty made manifest in the world! Thus far She had seemed to have nothing but Disappointment for Her children, victories yes, but punishments harsh and weary.

Perhaps this was a sign that She had found Favor!

That something joyous was about to take place!

That the Earth might return once again to those golden days where war and violence and hatred were but nightmares! A kind of joy spilled through him and he felt flooded with a light he hadn’t felt for centuries.

“Crawley! Oh, Crawley!” he gripped Crawley’s upper arms without thinking. “These truly are glad tidings!”

“Ngk.” The demon went stiff as a board. “Right. Fine. Great. Happy news. Can you turn down the sun a bit?”

“What?” He came to realize he was glowing. “Oh, I do apologize.” He realized too how warm the demon’s arms felt in his grip, how firm the skin and the faint trace of muscle sliding underneath. He cleared his throat and took a step back, but could not keep the jubilation from his face.

“Do you know what this _means_?”

Crawley took a step back, rubbing his arms , and Aziraphale dearly hoped he hadn’t hurt him.

“It means we’re all fucked.”

A great deal of the jubilation leaked out of him and he frowned.

“Well, perhaps for you.” He had to admit it probably wasn’t the _best_ time to be a demon. “But you really ought to have thought of that before you fell.”

“Not that. Not just me. I mean all of us. Maybe not you but, humanity in general? I mean… what other reason would THEY put a kid here unless that kid was going to be a king of something?”

‘Well naturally yes—”

“And you know what kings are like.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale thought about it. “Yes, true… I mean some kings can be fairly ruthless but not all of them. And he’ll be imbued with Holiness.”

“And also human,” said Crawley. “And you know what humans are like.”

“Yes…” Humans were given to frailty of virtue, weak to vice and temptation, more freely inclined to greed and lust and wrath and terrorizing their fellows— especially if they felt superior— most especially if they felt _divinely_ superior. And of course the Son of God would be all these things. But… but! But…

“Regardless….” He lifted his chin. “It’s for the Good. After all She knows what She’s doing. And if humanity has to enter turbulent times, perhaps they’ll emerge all the better for it. Perhaps there just needs to be a culling of the wheat from the chaff so to speak. And of course the chaff will have Deserved it. The Almighty is Just after all.”

“Yeah, I remember Job.”

That was…admittedly something a bit difficult to parse. He hadn’t been there for that and thank goodness but — the Almighty must have loved the man terribly to— to make him suffer so.

“Right… well… guess I’ll just stay downside for a while then when he comes along. How long could he live? Hundred years? Something like that?”

“Methuselah was nigh on a century…and…with him being Divinity…” Who knew if he would ever die?

“Great…”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the demon. Crawley looked just this side of terrified, and for good reason, Aziraphale supposed. He couldn’t imagine the Son of God would allow any sort of evil to co-exist. And that was Good. As well She shouldn’t. Though the thought of Crawley being trapped in the pits of hell or— or even worse—after all the Son of God could smite him more easily than even Aziraphale could!

And perhaps it was a failing to be so concerned, perhaps it was a disgrace, perhaps he shouldn’t offer a demon any shelter from the storm of God’s wrath. He meshed his fingers together, realizing he’d dropped his bowl in the urge to grip Crawley, the olives and cheese and arugula spread over the ground looking like a herbavorian carnage.

“Well—” Aziraphale said. “Well— of course— I— I will have to get some sort of information about this. Which, of course I ought to spread to mankind as soon as I hear it— Possibly… at… erm…” He cast Crawley a desperate look. The demon blinked, then seemed to understand.

“I hear the people of Ilum need good news.”

“Yes, Ilum, exactly. That is where I will be. To share the splendid news.” And if a demon were to overhear such splendid news, well, that was the will of the Lord, wasn’t it?

*~*~**~*~*

Of course _obtaining_ said information had to be done carefully. Aziraphale had never been much one for making sacrifices to speak to someone on High. For that poor creature to end their life at the service of him receiving a missive from Heaven, divine though they were, seemed like a waste. For humans he could understand the appeal, the greater the sacrifice, the greater attention it garnered— or so was the belief— but Aziraphale had no worldly goods to give up that he was attached to, and certainly the money to purchase said animal was hardly a burden.

The second way was to go to a sacred point where the Heavens touched the Earth. Though the only place around for _leagues_ was Olympus. Aziraphale had not yet ascended those lofty heights and wanted to avoid it as long as he could for reasons he dared not look too closely at. Besides which, entering the Eternal Sphere that way was a bit ostentatious and showy. One better have some good news of ones own when entering that way. Which Aziraphale was sorely lacking.

The third alternative was all that he was left with. Which was why Aziraphale had spent the better part of two days, making his way up this heavenly ladder, shimmering with iridescence and vibrating softly with the low tones of the music like lyres that trembled through it. Oh, it was a beautiful sight to be sure, but after several hours even the beautiful became grating and Aziraphale had to continually remind himself that he was not human and therefore not tired, though he dearly wanted to be.

Still and all as the sun rose, making it, goodness, the third day, Aziraphale rested. He hooked one arm around a rung, then, unsatisfied, shifted and wriggled until the ladder provided a thin if serviceable seat.

The world fell below him, a beautiful globe, glowing faintly gold in the coming of the sun. Its blues and greens taking on deeper color, the puffs of white clouds seeming filled with purpose. It was effortlessly beautiful, a busy hum of life in the deep black pool of stars, for all its sins and wars and foibles. It had been, after all, created with love and devotion, by Her hands and their attentions— Well, not his. He’d never been much the creative sort and had been made for Other Things besides. Things that made him wonder sometimes…

Or would have made him wonder…

If he was the wondering sort.

Which he wasn’t.

But on occasion his mind did take to pondering the circumstances within which he found himself— and, in this case, the circumstances within which the Earth would find itself. Soon? One could only guess.

Crawley was right. The child, if there would indeed be one, would be a King— which further meant a Kingdom of the Son of God. One could suppose that Kingdom would mimic the strict hierarchy of Heaven. One could suppose that, much like Heaven, anything evil or sinful would be quashed without mercy— whether perhaps exiled or even destroyed. Of course all that would be left was Good and that was good and perhaps so much variety was too much variety, though, Oh..

“Do you really mean this?” he murmured, directing his gaze skyward. He was close to the skin of the world here, the blue translucent, the endless night just beyond, awash with stars. Somewhere between that was the boundary of Heaven, the liminal space where the physical met the metaphysical and all things were possible, if not probable.

“The Earth is beautiful,” he murmured. “Flawed, yes, but transcendent.”

If She Heard, She gave no sign. He wasn’t really expecting one either. He hadn’t spoken to Her since that day he’d placed the last stone in the Garden wall, and hadn’t heard Her Voice since, oh, he couldn’t remember, the Flood perhaps. Maybe a bit after. It was not his to reason why, he knew. And whatever She meant would be for the Good, but Good didn’t always mean easy and it didn’t always mean pleasant either.

He let his gaze fall to the glittering blue and green below, here the rugged brown of a mountain range, there the golden sands of a desert and the white cities within. This was a sight he would never grow tired of, and yet he must turn away from it if he wanted to get back to Athens before the Festival of Dionysus. It was supposed to be quite splendid this year and no one put on a show as well as Athens.

Perhaps for the last time.

Aziraphale did his best to put those morose thoughts behind him as he turned once more and continued his weary way up the ladder. When he reached the thin boundary of light and effervescence, he paused. How should he Manifest? He hadn’t been in Heaven so long he hardly knew the trend. Every time he saw another angel they seemed to be sporting the most modern of styles in any particular region. His own chiton was rather current, only a decade or so out of date, and surely they hadn’t moved that far ahead. So he would remain how he was. He gave a thought to wings, but then forewent it. After all he would have to be somewhat humbled before them before he dared ask any questions.

He took a deep breath, then another, and ascended— and felt the breath sucked right out of him. Goodness, Heaven had Changed since he’d been here last. Gone was the simple wood and stone mixed with bits of the natural world, trees, running streams— Now instead of wood floors there was pale marble, colonnades rose to magnificent heights around arched windows. Mosaic tiles in shades of white danced across the walls with thin strands of gold or blue running through them. The only natural part that somewhat remained were lovely fountains set at measured intervals, guarded by marble lions and sending crystalline waters shooting into the air before tumbling into basins of white quartz which refracted light in a shimmering symphony of color.

Aziraphale felt both awed and small in this Palace of Palaces. Which was probably the intended effect. He clutched his fingers together and fought the urge to go back down. Questions were generally frowned on and he wasn’t in their good graces to begin with but… But he at least had to discover something. Bending his head he made his way to the general direction of Gabriel’s receiving chamber, the polished marble whispering under his sandals. Angels of all ranks moved back and forth, sometimes training in formation, sometimes carrying stacks of rolled scrolls. A Throne floated by overhead, dazzling as a young star, wheels eternally turning. A few of the eyes on the rim of the wheel affixed themselves on Aziraphale and then away before he could so much as wave a hello, dismissing him.

Probably for the best.

By and by he got used to the magnificence, though didn’t by any means feel like he was anything larger than an ant. It annoyed him a bit to see that long elaborate robes had come into fashion once more, leaving his simple saucy chiton behind— and long hair as well. Every angel even vaguely human shaped had either long sweeping locks or braids or stunning nimbuses of hair. He had tried long hair all of once and had looked like a feral sheep that had gotten caught in a rainstorm. Aziraphale resisted the urge to lengthen his chiton, and certainly didn’t change a single strand upon his head. Instead he held onto the faint irritation as best he could, using to hold back the well of anxiety that was growing in him at every step.

Gabriel would _not_ be pleased to see him, and even less so that he had no good news and was bringing _inquiries._ The Archangel was very busy generally and did not like to be disturbed, but there was no one else Aziraphale could turn to for reliable information. Despite all determination and intentions, when he found himself in front of the great doors, a pale beech color and inlaid with pearls and opals and azurite and veins of silver, he nearly turned and went the other direction.

In a turn of fortune, good or ill, an angel of the lower orders sat on an ebony stool in front of the doors, a great scroll on her lap. She was one of those with the nimbus of dark hair and rich skin the color of overturned earth. Her nails glimmered green and gold and there were streaks and swirls of the same color under her eyes and curling over her cheekbones like vines.

“Can I help you?” she asked in an airy voice. Aziraphale swallowed, then pasted a smile on.

“I’ve come to speak to the Archangel Gabriel, if it’s not too much trouble,” he said, pleased that he hadn’t stuttered.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“N-not as such. No.”

She blinked at him in a slow dangerous way, putting him in mind of an annoyed drake.

“Is it urgent?”

“Oh! Er, well…. N-not _urgent_ urgent. I mean nothing is on fire or anything. There’s no unholy war or holy person in need of rescue. It’s erm… well i-i-it’s rather that I have a query. Just a small one. Insignificant really. Well not—insignificant, but… well perhaps not as a dire as one might need for it to be, er, urgent. However it is quite short. Would only take a fraction of a second.” A titter escaped him before he could stop it.

“Worlds are born in a fraction of a second,” she said. “Stars die.”

In other words, go away. And he like as not should! But he wouldn’t. Not after he’d come this far.

“The Archangel is very busy,” she said.

“Yes, I’m sure he must be.”

She stared at him.

He stared at her. Her eyes were a dark dark green he realized, like the bottom of the ocean, and something like stars swum in them. Those eyes could freeze an angel where he stood, but it was a risk that Aziraphale was willing to take. She sighed like a wind through the branches of summer trees.

“Name and rank?” She produced an eagle quill tipped with gold and lowered it onto the parchment. Oh dear. A quick engaging smile.

“Aziraphale. Principality.”

Her eyes shot up once more, this time full of Judgement. He was _that_ Principality. The one who had failed to keep evil out of the Garden. The one who had— if not started the whole ball rolling— had at least not seen it going until it was too late to stop it. After a moment that felt like an eternity that he felt like he was being slowly skewered by a golden needle she said:

“I will let him know you’re here.”

“Thank you ever so.”

The great doors swung open and he went inside.

The Receiving room was as grandiose and bare as it had always been. There were nods to aesthetic of course, matching the outside environs, of marbled floors and colonnades and a ceiling covered in mosaic tiles. A fountain stood in the center as well, though in this case it was not guarded by lions, rather the water spewed forth out of a ram horn, clear and beautiful and cold. If this were Earth he was sure that there would be a thin film of ice.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. Right. Well he had some time to phrase this. Some time to couch this. If he said it just right then perhaps Gabriel wouldn’t be quite as irritated.

“Gabriel, my dear friend— no, certainly not.” He paced, hands in front of him.

“Hello, I know you’re terribly busy but I was wondering if there was any news about the Son of God? Perchance? Oh dear…” It now occurred to him to wonder why he hadn’t been told. After all, shouldn’t it be _news_? Shouldn’t everyone be speaking of it? Preparing for it? This was a major occurrence. _The_ major occurrence. So why had he found out from a demon of all things? Unless Crawley had lied, or misunderstood Isaiah, or had never met the _Isaiah_ Isaiah after all.

Well, he would deal with that when it came. For the moment, the only thing to do was to wait and hope.

*~*~**~*~*

And he had been waiting…and waiting…and waiting. Hoping too, as one did not get anything done in Heaven if one had given up hope. It had been…he didn’t know. Hours, weeks, months, years. Who could tell? Time had absolutely no meaning. The worries and fears hadn’t quite passed him over but came in waves. The entire room felt like an echo chamber. A place where ones thoughts could only glance off the cold surfaces, having nowhere to rest. Even the water seemed to reject any comfort, daring to freeze anyone who looked at it too long.

Any sound or hint of movement had him looking toward the door in fresh waves of agitation and doubts and ponderings. He tried not to imagine too fully of what the Son of God might be when he arrived. Of whether he would be kind or Just. Of what kind of King he would make. He also tried not to imagine his own more immediate future if there was no such thing and he had been Deceived. After all, there were many things that Crawley could get up to when left unsupervised on Earth.

If Aziraphale were human, his stomach would be tying itself in knots. As it was he could feel his insides twist and turn in a discordant jangle that seemed to vibrate him from head to toe, rather like being on the ladder again. This was nothing, however, compared to the icy hand that gripped his heart when he heard the unmistakable tenor of Gabriel’s voice just outside. It would be fine— and very soon it would be over and he would be sent to minister unto animals or sent into some barren wilderness to help lost souls.

“We have to be patient,” the archangel was saying as the doors swung inward. “We have to trust the Plan.”

Aziraphale screwed a smile on and somehow managed to keep it even as Michael strode in after Gabriel, her hair loose and a naked sword like the shard of a star at her side. There was a thunderous look on her face.

“I do trust the plan,” she said. “But it has been five hundred years, and Metatron—” Michael froze mid-step as she saw him. It might have been humorous if her glower didn’t make his insides want to shrivel up in apology. Gabriel had noticed him too and for a moment his expression was one of exasperation and exhaustion —which was somehow even worse than irritation. ‘Oh great’ that look said. ‘It’s him’

And indeed it was.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said as cheerfully as he might, his voice high and hollow in the pristine room.

“What,” said Gabriel with a stitched smile of his own. “Do you want.” His voice was pleasant and also as sharp as the star bright sword. If Aziraphale’s palms could sweat they would.

“Perhaps he has details about his assignment,” said Michael, cocking her hips to the side. The look on her face said that he’d better. “What did you send him to do?”

Gabriel’s lips parted and the slight hesitation carved out a place just under Aziraphale’s ribs. He didn’t remember. Well Gabriel _was_ a busy angel and couldn’t be expected to remember every assignment, could he?”

“Oh, I was checking up on demi-humans in Hellas. Athens if you must know. Well that’s where I am currently. Or was.”

“Of course,” said Gabriel with only a flicker of understanding and the barest hint of irritation. He folded his hands in front of him. “Good news?”

“Well er… well no— no news in fact erm… but I did get an exciting lead on Achilles. Not a son of Zeus, of course, the head god, but children of his are more plentiful than grapes in a vineyard. He’s actually supposed to be the son of—”

“Aziraphale.” Gideon didn’t snap but it was close enough and his eyes glittered. “You came here to give me a family history?” He would be lucky if he wasn’t set to one of the nether reaches of the Earth after this. Aziraphale smiled and went on.

“No…well, not precisely. Actually you see I wanted to verify a rumor that I’d heard—It- was— well just a rumor but it was from a … _somewhat_ reliable source and I thought --” At Gabriel’s closed expression he continued on hurriedly. “When are we expecting a Son of God?”

It was perhaps a bit too blunt. The silence grew so heavy there was almost a vacuum of sound, erasing a few from existence. Gabriel and Michael shared a look that Aziraphale couldn’t read and then Gabriel said:

“Who told you that?”

Oh bless it! Why hadn’t he anticipated this question? He felt himself go red and scrambled for words.

“Well— er— you know it’s—! Well prophecy does get around when one is looking for demi-humans and what is the Son of God but—without comparison to them of course,” he said, catching their looks. “But it does connect one with the other. Like seeds in a pod! And I just wanted to check the validity of that statement I-I - I mean after all, I have been on Earth quite a while and I should like to know what to look for.” He beamed as best he could.

Another silence, a little less soul sucking this time but it was still like being at the bottom of the world without even a heartbeat. Finally Michael made a sound that could either be a snicker or a snort and sheathed her sword with a chime.

“It’s always you, O Eastern Guardian.” It was a slight and he accepted it with an instinctive wince. “Always you.”

“Yes… well…my apologies… but it’s not a terrible thing to know, is it? I mean, it will be a Child of God! Surely a momentous occasion! One of joy.” He hoped. Oh, he hoped. “When can we expect it?”

“At the appointed hour,” Gabriel said opening his hands briefly, palms up. “At the appointed time. We don’t need to know any more than that.”

“Of course not. Naturally.” Though it would be nice, Aziraphale thought, to have a time frame. “And He is to be a King, yes? Someone Mighty and Just.”

“Yes,” said Michael and Aziraphale’s heart was stone. “That is what this world needs. That is what it deserves. Someone with a strong hand and an iron will.”

“We don’t yet know God’s plan,” said Gabriel after giving Michael a long searching look. “But it’s true that the Children of Man…” he sucked in air through his teeth. “Not the greatest. They’re lucky not to face another Flood at this rate.”

“Of course…the Almighty Promised there wouldn’t be,” said Aziraphale, hoping he hadn’t missed something.

“Shame,” said Michael, and then to Gabriel. “We will talk later.” Turning on her heel she strode from the room as furiously as she had come. Aziraphale wanted to breathe a sigh of relief but there was no relief in him, only a tight certainty high in his chest, a kind of dread.

“Well,” said Gabriel, clapping his hands. “You’re right, it is a joyous occasion.” He smiled. “But let’s keep that between us shall we? Just for now. Until we know more.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale made himself match that expression. “Yes of course.”

“Great. Don’t let me keep you. And Aziraphale,” Gideon added just as he was leaving. “Next time come through the right channels, hm? I’d hate to send you…somewhere difficult.”

“Of course…” He couldn’t even be moved to be worried about the implied threat of discipline. “I shall do it properly next time.”

“See that you do.”

With that, Aziraphale was on his way and the heavy doors shut behind him.

*~*~**~*~*

And perhaps, Aziraphale thought, making his way to his _klis_ _ía_ in the encampment on the far side of the battlefield, in many ways Michael was right. A few years had passed while he was in Heaven and, upon making his way to Ilum, had found it besieged in a war. A war which had been going on for two years and looked as if it might stretch on for more. Over the last week or so he had watched humans, in groups or in single combat, fight and kill one another for the sake of…well they called it love, but it was pride and honor mostly—the thirst for glory, the thrill of bloodlust. It wasn’t even the worst war that Aziraphale had seen and atrocities were on the mild side. But Humans were like this. They were before the Flood, they were after.

Perhaps it began when Adam cleaved the lion’s head. Or perhaps when Cain cleaved his brother’s. How they had mourned. How the darkness had pulled close like a shroud. No one had been able to understand where Abel had gone. Even Aziraphale himself couldn’t be sure. No one knew where Cain was meant to go but go he must, with the scar and burden on him for his foul deed.

Maybe humanity did need someone with a strong hand and iron will to control them for their own Good, a King that would beat them down the path of righteousness. The idea didn’t sit well with him if he were honest. Naturally the Almighty knew best, but did the best truly have to involve so much force?

The thoughts tumbled wearily through his head, worn as river stones. He wished for a moment he could stop thinking them, could stop grinding them to powder in his mind. Something in him insisted it couldn’t be, but the rational part of him said that it must. It was the part that made the most sense. He paused as he found himself in front of the _klis_ _ía._ It resembled the other _klis_ _ía_ in the encampment, a well but rapidly built little hut of wood and earth, perfect for besieging armies and tired soldiers. His had been constructed by a minor miracle and was on the smallish side with only one large sitting room awash with cushions and a bathing room with a rather surprised somewhat natural if miraculous hot spring that could seat eight were he so inclined, since one shouldn’t give up all one’s pleasures in war. There would be time enough for that later.

And yet, as he stared at it and the warm flickering light that cast out the doorway, he found no inclination to go inside. Instead he was more attracted to the slight rise just beyond, the slope above which a hundred billion stars shone and a beautiful cut of moon. Aziraphale ducked in to grab a jug of wine and an earthenware cup, and then went up to stand on the grassy hillside, looking up at the night sky.

After a cup or two he heard a step behind him and smiled a little in spite of himself.

“I heard the Son of God was in town,” Crawley said. “I expected him a little taller to be honest.”

“Oh hush you blasphemous thing. I told them not to call me the the child of Bacchus but they insisted.”

“Humans and their mad ideas,” Crawley said, eyebrows raised as he watched Aziraphale pour another cup of wine.

“Quite. I could put Bacchus to shame if I put my mind round it.” He smirked. Crawley breathed a laugh which made Aziraphale feel just a bit giddy. He steadfastly ignored the emotion and drank deeply. The silence here was wonderful. It was a soft expectant kind of silence, one that didn’t have to be filled with words, but instead a kind of emotion. He watched Crawley out of the corner of his eyes, watched his hair, free now and littered with braids, lift in the sway of the breeze, his yellow-gold eyes were lifted to the stars, filled end to end with the lovely color. Aziraphale wondered what he was looking for. Then unexpectedly Crawley looked at him and Aziraphale, shocked, buried his nose in his cup and stared out over the horizon as if he hadn’t noticed.

“I saw Achilles by the way,” said Crawley. “What do you think? Demi-human?”

“You know I have no idea.” Aziraphale sighed. “To be honest I wasn’t paying attention.” And then. “I suppose… a well done is in order. That is quite the war you’ve started, or so I’ve heard.”

“Started.” Crawley snorted. “All I did was to ask Helen if she needed a lift. I mean, I thought there’d be some bruised egos, a little bust up, a raiding party _maybe;_ but not ‘we’ll destroy you and everything you love’. Humans.” There was the bitterness of iron in his voice.

“I suppose the King will serve them well,” Aziraphale murmured. Crawley muttered a curse and stole the wine jug. Aziraphale let him since Lord knew he needed it, and watched bemusd as the demon sniffed the contents. He then stuck out his tongue and sucked it back in, making a face, flicking it against his back teeth. But, Aziraphale noticed with a faint amusement, didn’t put the jug down.

“So it is the King is it? It’s been decided?” Crawley said.

“Nothing’s been decided. Nothing is even really _known._ The Almighty is keeping Her cards close to Her chest. But…well it is the most logical outcome.”

“Figures.” Crawley sloshed the liquor around in the jug, then lifted it skyward. “Here’s to the end of the world.” He guzzled it straight from the jug, a bit of wine running from the corner of his mouth, down his jaw and the line of his throat.

“It’s not _so_ dramatic.” Though it would be the end of Crawley’s world, he supposed. Aziraphale turned his gaze to the Heavens once more, chasing down the distant nebulae, remembering how they’d swirled into existence. The Almighty had always loved the stars. Back in before the Beginning, some in Heaven had jokingly called them her second children….until the idea of humans were floated and then, well— but before that, before any thought of anyone or anything else, it had just been them and Her and the stars. She had danced and sang among them and they had danced and sang with Her. She had cooed planets to life and set comets at their paces.

He still remembered in a time before time even existed, when he was staring up at these skies, fresh and blistering and new. For a long time he had done nothing but watch and wonder. She had approached him on quiet cat feet and asked him if he would like to make a star. If he would like to add his Grace to the firmament. He had been so shocked he didn’t know what to say. It had been the first time She had Spoken to him since he’d wound into existence and only the truth had tumbled out.

He hadn’t wanted to make a star no, but he rather liked to look at them. That he wondered if some things were just meant to be enjoyed. To be watched just as they were. She had laughed and moved on, but it hadn’t been anything mocking or derisive. It had been a gentle sound, akin to falling water. It was as if She was amused, as if She was fond. Oh he knew he wasn’t high in Her estimation. He was an angel and, moreover, an angel that had allowed Her perfect plans to go to rack and ruin. But in that moment he had felt wholly Loved for no reason at all.

She had loved the Garden too and— well! The war was raging true, but now it was silent, now it was still, now families sat together and lovers trysted, now friends held hands in the darkening night and children slept in the arms of their parents. Even the great Kings loved something. Someone. And a King such as Michael had envisioned, as Crawley had envisioned…

“It won’t be like that,” said Aziraphale. “The Son of God. It won’t be. It won’t be some domineering force to make the heads of men bow. If She wanted to do that, she wouldn’t do it by proxy. If She wanted to do that, She would have done it long ago.”

“THEY can change THEIR mind you know.”

“I know. And I know that Her wrath is swift and terrible and Her Justice can be difficult and sometimes She does things or allows things that we cannot understand the rationality behind…and who are we to question?”

“Lower than dirt apparently,” he mutterd.

“And yet… She Loves too. She Loves her humans. She does. I’ve seen it. I still see it. That is why… that is why there is…life. That is why they are let to do as they please. More or less. So I wonder… I wonder… if it will be less a King and something…different. Something… something more. Something new.” A being born of love, he thought, but didn’t want to say as he didn’t wish to face the demon’s derision.

“You’re pulling at fine hairs there,” said Crawley. “Have you got any proof?”

“No… but neither have you.” The stern King was born of conjecture from a frustrated warrior and a bitter demon. He may be wrong in the end but in his heart…. In his _heart_ _…_ “I don’t need proof. I have Faith.”

He expected Crawley to mock him for it. To call him an idiot or worse. He expected to have to defend himself. Instead in the quiet stillness, he felt something shift inside, something subtle but at the same time wonderful, like a good wine running warm under his skin on a cold day. When he looked down he caught Crawley watching him, sympathy in the lines of his face.

“THEY’ll let you down, Aziraphale.”

“No,” Aziraphale murmured. “I don’t think She will.”

Because tonight felt like a holy night somehow and he felt as if he could stand forever in it under a blanket of shining stars.


	2. Laeti Triumphantes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding the Mother of the Son of God is no easy task, but Aziraphale will do his best. Though he searches through every court in the land, it may be that the one whom he seeks is not in any of them. In the meantime he hopes to slip a message to a very old fr--enemy-- who will soon be in a great deal of trouble.

Aziraphale looked up from the scroll of delicate papyrii he was reading from with the knowledge that something had changed. What it was was near imperceptible, like an unexpected fragrance lost in the breeze or a shadow caught out of the corner of ones eye without proper form and gone in an instant. He found himself staring a the scrolls tucked into their shelves. There were stacks and stacks of them, rolled up neatly. These were the ones transcribed from the ones that had been confiscated at the port and then returned— most were returned— some had been secreted away to hide among their sistren, the copies handed back to those unfortunate that were too illiterate to tell the difference. He frowned on the practice of course, but generally speaking those scrolls were taken wholly were from those too loutish or uncaring to know what they held—

And what they held was knowledge. A great storehouse of human thought and philosophy, treatise and deed, histories and genealogies and reams of sorcery tucked all away together, written in one hand or another and copied over again to be preserved here. He smiled, closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the air, feeling the potential of it all tingle against his skin. He’d been rather aghast at the written word at first. Speech pinned to paper seemed like wild animals pinned to boards or tied to stakes, unable to be free to live their wild nature— but oh, how wrong he’d been! There was so much here to learn and more than he ever could learn just hearing one word at a time. Seeing them. Reading them. _Living_ in each little syllable or upstroke of the brush or reed or bit of charcoal— Words that expressed in detail what images could only hint at.

Ah, what amazing creatures humans were! How privileged he was to know them…

And how quickly it was all to change.

Aziraphale set the scroll down and rose, brushing down the hem of his tunic as he crossed to what he liked to call the _artir_ _ía,_ or the seat of the muses. Here, the moonlight came in through the large windows at the top of the library to gleam upon a slight recess in the floor, filled with a mosaic depicting the known world, or the Alexandrian world anyway. The muses themselves stood on guard by the windows as colorful statues holding the symbols of their stations. He couldn’t see the moon, hidden above the central tower, but he could, if he stood just so, see the Star.

It was faint at the moment, a mere freckle in the Eastern sky, crowded and outshone by the others— but it had been noticed, and not even by him or by Heaven it seemed. Wisemen and soothsayers and astronomers of all stripes had started to whisper in the corners about what it could mean, this new star, so strangely come, so quickly growing in size and strength of color. Oh, not so quickly that a human could perceive it from rush mark to the next, but growing steadily over years and decades.

It was the Sign that He was near.

Though no one in Heaven could figure out just where He would come from.

Suddenly the quest to find Demi-humans, or the women who might bear them, had picked up in intensity and angels were once again sent hither and yon, but this time on a very specific mission to find the Mother. Aziraphale himself had been to every court from here to Iberia, searching for Princesses and Noblewomen who would be Worthy enough to Bear the Son of God. So far not a single lead had been unearthed. The only hint that Aziraphale had found was that she was to come from the line of David, which, while it did narrow the field considerably did rather make one wish that Solomon hadn’t been quite so woman happy. Seven hundred wives were quite enough for anyone. More than enough! But three hundred concubines?

The Almighty hadn’t seemed to mind or at least never Smote Solomon for being so Smitten. Aziraphale smiled at his little joke. Still it made searching for Her Son complicated at best.

He had lately come from the court of Ptolemy finding no succor but the extravagance of the Great Library, where he had poured over and cross-referenced any sort of prophecy he could get his hands on. There were less of them pinned to words than he had hoped. Perhaps the matter was too sacred to be trapped upon the page. And fewer of them spoke of this very situation, or spoke to him, or offered a single blessed hint.

If he were the wondering sort.

Which he was not-

He would wonder why She did not outright tell them whom they were meant to be searching for.

Perhaps it was meant to be a test. Though if it was Aziraphale felt as if he were failing it.

A light step on the stone floor drew his attention outward.

The single light from a small oil lamp was coming toward him through the greater corridor, carried by Meresankh, a stern faced woman in her late -fifties who acted as a sort of night matron of the Library of Alexandra. She was fairly illiterate as many were, but could read a little and transcribe as one did not need to be able to understand the letters to draw them. She was a woman who seemed to prefer the company of scrolls and knowledge and old men to her herd of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren at home. There wasn’t room in her small house, she’d said, to squeeze a needle— and she said it with such gravity that none could doubt her utter seriousness over the matter.

She also did not like him, as she told as much in her dark eyed gaze which seemed to wish to pierce through his skin. Perhaps he remained late into the night and intruded on her otherwise solitude. Or perhaps it was because he was fairly new to the area, having been for only three years. Or perhaps it was because he was a guest in the home of Lysandros the Greek, not so newly arrived from Akroinon in Thrace, and not so welcomed either, at least not by her. She seemed of an older blood and of a history that much preferred outsiders to remain outside. Whatever the reason he always had the feeling she’d rather see him tossed into the waters of the Mediterranean and be done with it.

“Good evening,” he said as cheerily as he might.

“The last watch has changed,” she told him. “You should be a philosopher instead if you choose to read the heavens.”

“I was reading from a delightful little travelogue until just a few moments ago. Apparently Pictland is quite the spot!” If you wanted to get horribly murdered by beasts shaped like men who painted their faces, or so set the narrator of the piece who had barely escaped with his life. Meresankh pursed her lips into a thin line.

“Your lamp has been cold for hours.” Her voice was accusing and he flushed, looking guilty and he knew it. Truly he hadn’t even realized it had gone out.

“Well time does get away from one.” And Faster than he’d like it to.

“The servants of the Greek wait outside,” she said. “They wish to know if you’re going home.”

“Oh—yes, I suppose I’d better.” The poor things. He hadn’t really wanted a litter but Lysandros had insisted. It looked good for him and really Aziraphale couldn’t say he entirely _minded_ being ported around instead of having to navigate the busy Alexandrian streets. It also made him look like a man of some noble blood which had been convenient for what he’d been intending to do. Now that was over, of course, and he’d be sent somewhere else, but perhaps one more ride couldn’t hurt.

“You are a strange man, Scribe Aziraphale,” she said, accompanying him to his little nook as if afraid he would tuck the scroll into his sleeve. He was tempted, he had to admit. There were scrolls here where the words sang in his mind, the elegance of the script, the brilliance of the poetry; scrolls that needed to be cherished and preserved and poured over. But those things were meant for the humans and to the humans they would remain.

“So I’ve been told,” he answered her comment. He wasn’t sure in which way she meant it, but he accepted all terms of his oddity. “But everyone is strange until you get to know them.”

She gave him a look as if she highly disbelieved this and anyone who spoke thus was not to be trusted.

“You won’t find your Son of God in the movements of the stars,” she said as she lead him from this sanctuary of literature, the light from the oil lamp flickering with her movement. “They speak only of the past and a future that Man can’t read. My mother made herself mad with supposition by following their courses.”

“I am not following courses, my gaze is fixed on a certainty.” And then— since they had passed out of the light into the darkness and with a sting of guilt. “But stars can be portents. Omens, if you will. The sign of Great Things to Come and Fairly Soon. So Those Evil who cannot Bear to Stand Before Light had Best Find Somewhere Else to Be.”

And if those words were to pass from her lips to the lips of others which may reach the ears of a demon, well, that was what rumors did. And it wasn’t particularly _wrong_ to give him a bit of a head start, was it? After all if the Son of God was going to arrive the traditional way, he’d need to grow a bit before indulging in any Smiting. Even thinking this, Aziraphale tried not to think about how Herakles had strangled two snakes in his crib as an infant and instead sent a sunny smile at Meresankh’s narrowed gaze.

“Anyway,” he continued. “I’m not so much looking for a Son of God as in who might bear him.” He sighed. “As tiring as the search may be.”

“I don’t believe you would lie with a woman,” Meresankh said after a time. “But if you are searching for a bride, stay away from my granddaughters.”

“ _Me?_ _”_ Aziraphale said, aghast. “What on Earth is that supposed to mean? Why would I be looking for a bride?” And then, hoping that he was wrong in this rather irritating assumption. “I am not a god.”

“You have wealth but no family.”

“I do! I have a brother in—”

“Your skin is pale but you do not burn in the noon day sun.”

“I’m usually taking a meal at that point, and I resent—”

“The scholars say you can read any language put before you—”

“I am a well-rounded—”

“— Even ones that they created just a day before to test you.”

“Oh dear…” Perhaps he should learn to differentiate between texts. It all read the same to him. Words were words were words regardless of form or grammatical structure. “I am not a god. I am— I am just a wise man. A magician. That is what I am.”

She didn’t look as if she believed him but she said no more as they made their way to the doors of the library which she locked behind her with a hefty iron key. The servants of Lysandros were snoozing against the carry chair, pepper and blond curls resting together as they dozed. He really had kept them rather late.

He stared down the stone stairs but then a thought occurred to him. He half turned to see Meresankh with her hand on the door, gazing up at the library with an almost worshipful stare. Any building could be a temple, he thought with a curl of fondness, if one loved it enough. A thought occurred to him. Meresankh was a wise woman and learned in her own way. She was certainly learned of the world and had achieved the amazing feat of having ten children and surviving it.

Why— why, if anyone would know anything about motherhood it would be her.

“I am… a seeker,” he said, drawing her attention. “A- a servant of the One Above All.”

She watched him in the stillness, as if she was waiting for the question he was about to pose. Or perhaps she was just watching to make sure he didn’t sneak back into the library once her back was turned.

“If… if you were to… choose a Mother for the Son of God…Who would she be?” ”

Meresankh pressed a hand against her chest, her eyes cast downward in thought. Her thumb moved over the emblem of Horus she wore, as if drawing strength or invoking help, perhaps even seeking advice of her own.

“The Mother of the Son of God,” she murmured. “Must be a strong woman, able to bear the weight of the world on her shoulders. All children attract grief and pain like flies to honey, and how much more would the Son of God? She must be wise too, to know what she must let go and what she must stand against. And above all she must be ready for sacrifice, for no god comes without that requirement.”

They were wise words and he felt the truth of them. Wise but ambiguous. Any woman could have that quality. He had met as many before and since who were wise and strong and ready for sacrifice.

“You are a very strong woman yourself,” he said gently, to please her. A smile, wire thin, and the first he’d seen from her, curled about her mouth.

“I would not bear a that Child, nor that grief, not for the gold of Kings or Gods.”

And what were they subjecting the poor Mother to, he wondered, that she must bear that? He was about to take his leave of Meresankh when she rose and stepped away from the shadows of the door into the scant moonlight.

“When I first came to this place, a young scribe, dead now before his time, gave me a passage to copy.” The faint smile lingered. “He was mocking me, I think, but he was so impressed with my precision, I was allowed to stay to work in this…temple. My shrine.” She pulled from her belt something wrapped in linen. In that linen, a small square of lower quality papyrus, already starting to disintegrate despite the care that had obviously been taken to protect it. “He said that it contained a prophecy of the peoples of the desert, the peoples of my mother’s family. It is a prophecy of advent of someone…great. Many nights I have poured over these symbols, wondering what they could mean.” She held it out to him, her hand shaking faintly, and it was all he could do not to snatch them away. “I would like to know what it says.”

“Of course, dear woman. It would be an honor.” He took it, breath catching a little in his throat. The passage was a small one, simple, fragmented, but his own hand shook as he recognized the strokes of the syllabary, of those ancient desert peoples—

Meresankh made a slight noise and he remembered that he was to read aloud. He cleared his throat and said:

_“I_ will raise up for David a righteous Branch.”

Well he had known that already.

_“_ And he shall reign as king and deal wisely, and shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.”

Which was good to know, if still fairly ambiguous and meant that it must be some sort of monarch. He was growing a little tired of the court life, but never mind.

“In those days, Judah— Oh!” He clapped a hand over his mouth. Excitement flew through him so even his scalp tingled. “Judah! Judah, Dear Woman! Judah! Oh it makes so much _sense_. Of _course!_ Do you understand what this means?” Who was the King there now? He couldn’t remember. But if it was Judah, then-!

“I assume it is you found your way,” said Meresankh. “But please, what else does it say?”

“Oh yes… Right.” He cleared his throat again. “In his days Judah will be saved and Israel will live in safety. And this is the name by which he will be called… and that is all that’s written. But it shall be Immanuel I believe, or something akin to that. Oh… how _wonderful_.”

“Please.” She held out her hand for the square once more and he happily returned it. Her eyes slipped over the words, squinting in the uncertain light. Her brow furrowed as if trying to make them out. As if desperate. Finally she let out a shaking sigh and the smile she wore was something almost bittersweet.

“I cannot even understand the language of my own people. What fool am I to search for others?”

The poor dear. She was as a woman lost in the desert, searching for knowledge like water. He smiled and came up to stand beside her, arm lightly brushing hers, just enough to touch.

“It can be quite difficult,” he said. “But easy once you have the knack. Here, I shall show you.” A brush of his finger against the papyrus preserved it for all time and he read slowly in her language, then once more in words once more in Aramaic. As he spoke he could feel her understanding slowly, agonizingly, slide into place. Wonder filled her face and tears welled in her eyes. It was only a sip of water he knew, she would be thirsty again for all the words she could not read and he didn’t know if other Scribes would be so amenable. A woman’s time, even one who had some respect as Meresankh did, wasn’t assumed to be valuable.

So he made sure that over time she would begin to know more. Whatever she read the understanding would slip into her mind, of the context, of the meaning, of the sounds the words made on the page that echoed in the mind. It would not be all at once because he’d learned that lesson the hard way, but within a few months there would be no words safe from her voracious appetite.

Her trembling hand pressed flat against her breast and tears fell freely now.

“I must get on,” Aziraphale said, politely pretending not to notice. “Have a blessed night and may your honey ever repel the most terrible of flies.” It had sounded better in his head than it had out loud, but Meresankh wasn’t in a state to critique, if she even noticed.

He left her there then, with that as a farewell, his own excitement buzzing just under his breast. He tried not to think of how this would be the last time he was to Grace this library for a while, perhaps forever. Or that he would never get to know what Meresankh did with her gift. Well, he rarely had that luxury. As he descended the steps he heard her murmur a prayer of gratitude to Horus, to Isis, to Ra, and perhaps it was one and the same.

He let one last fond smile lift his face and then shook it away. The prophecy was on the move and so must he be. It was time to rouse the young servants from their sleep to return him to the House of Lysandros.

The young men called themselves Phobos and Deimos and like those birds of myth, fairly flew through the empty Alexandrian streets. Lysandros lived in a fairly wealthy section of town, settled mostly by foreigners and merchants and other such riff-raff. Sons of Jackals as the natives of the city liked to call them.

Aziraphale had found an odd contentment in the carved halls and the pretty little rooms, his own overlooking the bay was especially lovely. He had a bed and a chest of possessions and his own little attached sitting room for when he wanted to entertain. What Lysandros thought of him, he couldn’t begin to guess, but seemed to be pleased with the knowledge that they were both eligible bachelors, content to share a space and share the wealth.

He would hate to leave it, but there was something more important buzzing in his mind. Something greater than any Earthly pleasure could procure. An uncountable treasure! And for once, it would be news Gabriel would be pleased to hear. Though of course before he made any contact with Heaven, he had to freshen up a bit.

Humming to himself, Aziraphale fairly danced about his rooms. He threw on a fresh tunic, laced up some new sandals and— was only a bit miffed about adding the toga of the Roma style . He wasn’t fond of those Romans at the moment. They seemed to want to consume everything and pull it into their empire like a spider pulling flies into the web. Of course, Alexander had been no different, but he was a conqueror and that was what you expected one to do. He came, he saw, he died too soon and left all of his lands a mess so to be divided up. The only thing that hung around was his name and his legacy. He didn’t, as it were, overstay his welcome.

For a time Aziraphale had even thought _he_ might be the Promised Child but thank Herself he wasn’t.

Nevertheless, the toga was part of Heaven’s dress code and it would not do to rock the boat. A shell comb through his hair, a few less rings on his fingers and he was more or less prepared.

Then to the sitting room where the small shrine to Bacchus stood in silent Accusation. Aziraphale knew what it _looked_ like, and anyone in Heaven would certainly have Things to Say about him having a Shrine to a far lesser deity that wouldn’t be fit to tie the Almighty’s sandals, but it served its purpose. Humans loved to sacrifice to Bacchus, bringing to the shrine flowers, fruit and, of course, wine. They smiled at the chubby cheeked golden curled statue that sat at the shrine’s head. One Lysandros had found in a market in Athens and had said laughingly that Aziraphale should have it. It had been quite a long time since Aziraphale was last in Athens, so he could forgive them for not getting the nose right. In any case, every human that left an offering left with a small blessing, a pinch of good luck, a dash of fortune, an aversion of a small disaster- nothing major but they Believed and their Belief allowed him to contact Heaven without bloodletting.

The only problem was it had to be regenerated over time, which typically meant parties where libations flowed, and neither Lysandros or Aziraphale minded those too much. All for a good cause. A Better cause than they knew.

He took a few breaths, then, thus prepared, lit the oil lanterns with a pinch of his fingers and poured the rich Phonecian wine into the golden bowl, decorated with grape leaves. That done, he cupped his hands into a bowl at his waist and closed his eyes, murmuring the ancient call in a language no human had ever known but had heard sometimes in their dreams. After a moment there was a shimmer of golden-white light and a faint note of celestial music. Netzach appeared in the bowl. She had become Gabriel’s right hand in this journey and Aziraphale was glad that she had not been punished for allowing him admittance into the receiving room that day. In fact she looked like she was doing rather well. Her dark nimbus of hair had been gathered in a green and golden clasp and large gold hoops glittering with emeralds swung from her ears.

“Principality Aziraphale.” Her eyes were full of Judgment as usual. “Do you have news?”

It was what she asked every time.

Usually he did not. Or nothing substantial. Usually he was met with, well, not even disappointment, not even resignation which hurt even more, just a calm acceptance that he was being useless as ever.

_This_ time however it would be different.

_This_ time he had something big.

He beamed, trying contain his excitement, not the least bit deflated as her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I do. Joyous news! I have found something quite brilliant and I cannot believe we overlooked it. You see—”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll let him know you’re here. Please wait.”

“I shall—” But she was gone. The holy light remained however and that as well as the faint sound of lyres drifting upward from the bowl told him he was still connected.

Aziraphale waited— and waited— and _waited_. He could feel the Earth move beneath him and the stars turn in their paces. Still he stood without twitching so much as a muscle. His elation did not disappear entirely, but he felt it drop away bit by bit, like pebbles creeping down the side of a cliff. He supposed he couldn’t really fault Netzach for taking so long to get to Gabriel, or for Gabriel to return to him. He knew that he wasn’t well favored and was actually quite ill-favored and why he was still a principality was as odd to him as it likely was to them.

Yet still—

Still!

He had something now! He had _direction_.

He tried to maintain his good cheer but by the time the night was in his deepest most tired paces and there was the very faintest glow of false dawn round the rim of the world, he was starting to wonder if he would be waiting days. He hoped not. It would be difficult to explain to the servants for one.

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel’s voice nearly startled him out of his skin and he wrenched a smile on just as the Archangel appeared, his long hair bound behind him in gleaming silver cords. His smile was also wrenched on and seemed just to be there to conceal the teeth behind it. “I hope you have some good news.”

“I do!”

“Find anyone at uh…”

“Ramses,” said Netzache from out of view.

“Ramses’ court?”

“It is Ptolemy now. Hasn’t been Ramses for quite some time though with the way names seem to recycle—” And at the look that flashed in Gabriel’s eyes quickly added. “No, no I haven’t. His daughters and grandaughter were very lovely, but none of them stood out. Not that they _couldn_ _’t_ be worthy but I—”

“Then what,” said Gabriel, “Did you need? Netzach has all your assignments as I’ve told you.”

“Yes, I understand, but, well— well—” Ah, here came the tricky part. “I know that… you told me to…not put _so_ much emphasis on prophecies--”

Gabriel’s smile disappeared so fast Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised if it took a few stars out with it.

“B-but I found something really interesting. Something _key_ ,” he said quickly. “You see—”

“We went through this with Alexander.”

“Yes, but—”

“And that calender. The…the what was it?” he snapped his fingers.

“Alright but this is crucial. It’s about Judah!” He blurted before Gabriel could overrun him. This stopped the Archangel and Aziraphale was so surprised by that there was nothing but the sound of lyres. A cautious smile found its way beck to Gabriel’s face and he folded his hands in front of him.

“What about it?”

“Well!” He swallowed, tried to recall that joy only to find it a bit brittle. “Basically it’s something that I found here, there is a fantastic depository of scrolls and knowledge. Probably the biggest in this part of the world! Quite the adventure if you ask me just walking through the stacks. But I found-! Well that is the matron found, quite a lovely woman, well she was given—”

“Aziraphale.” The voice was like a thunderclap.

“The king will be born in Judah. Isn’t that astounding? We now have a place!”

Gabriel did not look the least bit happy with this. Instead closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh as if asking for strength. Aziraphale swallowed and fought hard to keep his smile. Had he missed something? Was he so out of the loop? “I —I can quote it if you like—”

“Did the prophecy of yours _specifically_ say he would be born in Judah?”

“Ah— well it wasn’t _specific_ but it highly implied that Judah would be involved and—”

“There is a prophet slated to be born there,” said Gabriel. “ _Soon_ , I might add. Very soon. A prophet who will prepare the way. And we don’t have time to be peeking into every prophecy in hopes that—”

“But—”

“--In _hopes_ that we’ve found an easy answer. The Son of God is meant to be a King. We won’t find him in a backwater kingdom. We’ll find him somewhere _important_ and we’re already _very_ behind.” Gabriel gave him a look that left no doubt about who the cause of that was. Aziraphale felt smaller than a grain of sand. “Now you’re due next in—”

“Sheba,” said Netzach.

“Sheba,” said Gabriel and Aziraphale decided not to tell him that technically it was Saba these days.

“Go there, do your duty, move on. Stop getting distracted by everything else. Stop pretending you know better.” Another harsh look. “And get to work.”

And Aziraphale was left staring into the bowl of wine, feeling hollowed out. Perhaps he had gotten it wrong. No… No there was no perhaps about it. Heaven knew best, he was sure. And his own feelings, well, they’d been wrong so many times before. What was different about this time? The twist in his stomach meant nothing, the taste in the back of his mouth likewise meant nothing. He drank the alter wine since it was dangerous to leave behind and went to his sleeping quarters. The star shone bright outside the window, beckoning him, telling him glorious things if he only had the ears to hear it.

But such melodies weren’t meant for his ears, so he turned away and set about getting the room in order.

He would be gone by morning.

*~*~**~*~*

It was a cool day, made cooler by the north wind which swept down the narrow streets and thoroughfares of the Grand Bazaar, ruffling banners and table clothes and the hems of robes and dresses. It was in many ways a blessing as otherwise the market might be stifling. There usually was quite a crowd on any given day, that Aziraphale remembered, but now with the new year celebration of Nowruz on the horizon, the usual crowd was flooded with excited holidayers, coming for the excitement that Tehran could provide, or else using it as a stopping point for their journey along the silk road. It was a lovely place, where languages and cultures and ideas and ideals flowed like water. Many cities of the silk road were like this but no one could make a Kabob Koobideh like Round Hashem who ran a stall near the main entrance. That and a cup of caviar, the jewel of the Caspian Sea, was enough to make anyone’s day and to make the long journey worth it.

And his journey had been long. From Saba to Moenjodaro, from Moenjadaro to Myanmar, from Myanmar to Chang’an, Chang’an to Jolbo, and all ports of call in between it felt like, searching searching but never finding. In the meantime the star in the East grew steadily brighter and the When was becoming far less ambiguous, the how an eternal mystery and the Whom? Anyone’s guess.

Right now Aziraphale was here to see if he could make his way into the court of…well _technically_ Mithridates, but all knew that his mother Laodice IV held the reins of state. Whether that was a good or bad thing wasn’t up for Aziraphale to decide and blessedly out of his wheelhouse, but he was at least glad she had the perspicacity to stand staunchly against Roma. It was a dangerous position to take to be sure, but the scepter of power didn’t have to jam so eagerly into _every_ corner of the globe, did it.

In any case, he had every intention of going to the court of Laodice forthwith, but first he simply had to set up a bit of a basecamp. One did not just show up at the court without any sort of forewarning unless one was prepared to do an extravagant amount of miracles first. Heaven would not look too kindly on that— but if it meant that he could spend some time wandering the market, feating his eyes on the seething mass of humanity away from the opulence and drama of court, so much the better.

Currently he was heading eastward toward the _Atskada,_ the old Zorastrian Temple that sat tucked away near the end of the bazaar. It had been there since the time of God, some of the locals said, but at _most_ it had been six hundred years and even given what little Aziraphale knew of the area, he wouldn’t even give it more than a hundred and fifty. There he hoped to reunite with an acquaintance by the name of Vahid Jahandar. He had met the man and his young family just outside of Samarkand on the silk road, heading in the opposite direction, caught in a sudden, fierce rainstorm. They had offered him shelter in their tent and when their infant daughter had become ill, he had repaid the kindness. It had been a few years but Vahid said that if he ever found himself in Tehran, to come visit him and his family, and so Aziraphale would. His wife, Sahie, was an excellent cook and Heaven certainly wouldn’t begrudge him one pleasant evening before he returned to work.

A flicker of shadow caught the corner of his eye and his heart surged. He half turned, but it was only an old woman in a shawl, sampling some dates.

“You are absolutely ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. After all there was no reason for Crawley to be here. No reason for Crawley to be anywhere, a cheeky part of his mind informed him. Why not here? Because there had been no rumors for a start. The red hair made an impression and if it did not, the yellow-gold eyes certainly did. Still he’d kept his ear to the ground for anything resembling a snake god or lizard god or sultry local deity installed at a temple, but nothing. The fact of it was he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Crowley for quite a long time and he—well he hated to admit that he was a bit worried about him.

Perhaps worried for nothing. Perhaps Crawley had gotten his message or, being quite intelligent on his own, had interpreted the message of the star for himself and had gone underground. It was certainly not so ambiguous now and he could feel the time growing short like sand under his skin, chafing from the inside out. Which meant, honestly, he should go to the Laodice court right now, but something about that felt wrong, like getting turned around on a familiar road and he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

It was pride, he imagined. A wounded pride that Gabriel had so easily swatted him down. What Gabriel said made sense and if you went into the technicalities of the prophecy, there was nothing there about the Child being _born_ in Judah. Perhaps… no… _certainly_ Gabriel had been right. A King would come from Kings and surely the Almighty would make sure Her Son was born in a more Kingly city.

He pushed these thoughts from his mind for now as he noted the entrance to the _Atskada_ and looked around. He was relieved to find the stall of a silk merchant not too far away. Putting on a smile, he absently tucked one hand inside of another and approached the stall— only to stop when he saw an aged man with a tottering head perched on an old stool.

It had been a while since he’d seen Vahid, but surely not _that_ long!

“Erm… Vahid- _Kh_ _ân_?” he said tentatively. The old man looked up at him through rheumy eyes and blinked. His cracked lips moved but no sound came out.

“ _Âghâ-ye_ Aziraphale? Is that you?” said a man behind him and he turned, nearly into the embrace of the thankfully younger than he just now suspected Vahid Jahandar. “It is you!” said Vahid, gripping his upper arms. A merry laugh came from him. “Ah, my friend! Let me look at you! You were missed!”

“Oh, go on,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle, feeling himself flush.

“Eh?” said the voice of the creaky old man behind them. “Who?”

“ _Baba_ ,” said Vahid. “This is _Âghâ-ye_ Aziraphale, who I told you about. Do you remember? He does not,” Vahid continued before the old man could even formulate a reply. “His mind is a bucket full of holes. But never mind, I knew you would return. _Bah Bah_ , come sit! Come stay. Come have a cup of coffee, the beans straight from Saba. I have a cousin there you know.”

“You seem to have cousins everywhere,” said Aziraphale, letting himself be hustled into a seat and accepting the small hot cup of coffee that had been heated in a little pot over a brazier.

“It is amazing, is it not, how much family one can discover in ones travels? Eh?” Vahid nudged him and laughed. Aziraphale chuckled too and the old man added something which might have been a laugh but sounded worryingly like an air bladder punctured with a nail. “And tell me of your travels. Did you find your way into Chang’an? Did they try to serve you your liver? I hear they do. Hey now! Stop running!” This to some children on the street. “You’ll trip and die!”

“Your children?” Aziraphale said, sipping his coffee.

“My cousins.” Vahid laughed again. “Now tell me, I must hear. All the details. No! Don’t tell me. Not yet. A tale like that should only be told over good food.”

Aziraphale couldn’t argue with him there.

“You haven’t changed at all. Not since that time. Have you found your Mother of God yet?”

Aziraphale waited until he was sure he would actually be allowed to speak, then did so.

“Mother of the _Son_ of God,” he corrected gently. He didn’t know how much divinity the Child would possess, if any, but it was best to use the official title as it were until they knew. “And sadly not. She seems to be rather elusive. I shall be expected at court soon and perhaps there…”

“You won’t find Him in that den of lions, or help us all.” He spoke good naturedly, swatting at Aziraphale. “Though I would be proud, eh? Honored. You should choose a nice local girl, one with good looks and who won’t expect the moon. There are several pretty ones I know of.”

“It’s not for _me,_ for Heaven’s sake,” he muttered. “I am _just_ a messenger.”

“Of course, of course,” Vahid said as if he didn’t believe him. “For God, I mean. You’d want the Son of God to be comely right? Oi! Chandresh!” he shouted before Aziraphale could answer. Not that Aziraphale would have spoken to that anyway. A young boy, possibly from near the Indus valley, jogged up to thems. “I will give you some honey gaz if you run and tell your aunt that _Âghâ-ye_ Aziraphale is here! She will have my head in the market if you arrive and she is not prepared.”

“You really needn’t go to to much trouble,” Aziraphale said. Though he did hope there would be some honey gaz left over once Chandresh returned.

“I do, I do. We’ll have a celebration!”

“No, really.” Celebrations made him a bit uncomfortable, especially when said in the tone that indicated he was to be the guest of honor. It was such a trial being the center of attention.

“But we must! After all, your old friend is waiting there and you shouldn’t disappoint her. Old friends always meet with a celebration around here!” He laughed.

“Really?” Aziraphale was so shocked by this he completely forgot to stutter out the disclaimer that they were not friends. In any case a pair of customers came to the stall and the moment was lost as Vahid began to chatter to them as he showcased bright bolts of silk for their inspection. Well, never mind, let him think what he wanted for now. Aziraphale would correct him later. Right now was a time to sip his coffee and mentally fortify himself for this semi-clandestine meeting with his arch enemy.

Aziraphale sat on the flat rooftop garden of Vahid’s ancestral home, a half day’s ride away from Tehran, looking out on the cool starwashed evening. A goblet of date wine rested by his elbow next to a bowl of gaz, the delicious pastires made of honey and pistachios and almonds and flour were absolutely divine and sweet against the somewhat bitter disappointment that had settled within him. He supposed he ought not to be disappointed. He supposed he ought to be thrilled. Or at least pleased.

His friend, as it turned out, was not a centuries old demon who had caused mankind to sin and set forth its inevitable destruction, but instead Fereshteh, Vahid’s infant daughter, now a woman grown. She had joined him on the rooftop garden, or rather he’d been invited here by her husband, Arif of Indus, to sit with their small but growing family in the quiet and the cool, away from the wild music and the laughter and the thousand questions in the house below. Arif was an astute man for all that his near deafness made his words difficult but precise. He seemed to be an astronomer of sorts, and had sat, many a night with his eyes on that star, or so Fereshteh had explained. He was doing so now, not quite turned completely away from Aziraphale, but enough so that his attention was markedly elsewhere, their three-year-old son asleep in his lap.

Fereshteh sat on her knees nearby, tending the brazier which kept the coffee hot and kept peeking shy looks at him from around the edges of her silken veil. After a moment she rose, the thin gold anklets she wore chiming gently against one another as she served Aziraphale a fresh cup.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, sipping the very good coffee and telling himself that he ought to be glad of this. That he ought to be grateful. He was certainly telling himself most sternly that he could not _get_ tired, so this weary feeling was just all in his head. She nodded and served her husband— then after a moment came back to him, veil pulled across the bridge of her nose leaving only her curious shy eyes.

“Is there anything else I can get you _Jen_ _âb_ Aziraphale?”

_Jen_ _âb_ was far too formal, as if he were some rich man or noble. Still, Aziraphale accepted the title as it may have been culturally indecent for her to refer to him otherwise and he didn’t wish to put her in a difficult position as he was a guest. He hoped it was because he was just a guest and they didn't’ consider him a visiting divinity.

“No thank you. You’ve done quite well. It is delicious.” He sipped the coffee and found it was absolutely delicious, with even a hint of cinnamon in it that made his tongue dance. Fereshteh bowed her head and moved to stand beside him, watching the stars herself.

“Mah will be full and ready to bear when the new year arrives,” she said, referring to the luminous moon. “Arif says it’s a good sign…Though, he is less clear on other aspects of the heavens.”

The star, Aziraphale thought, but honestly didn’t know if he wanted to bring up.

“It is difficult to follow the courses of the stars,” he murmured. “There is no one answer.”

“No answers but many stories. Some just beginning.” She seemed to smile. A curl of love came from her and he saw her run a hand over her belly. So she was pregnant again, though the spark of life within her was a little flicker, like a tiny candle on a drafty windowsill. Aziraphale closed the metaphorical shutters and hummed.

“Here is hoping it is a good one.”

“And your story, _Jen_ _âb,_ is it a good one?” She frowned. “ _Baba_ tells me you have not yet found who you are searching for. Do you hope to find her here?” She seemed anxious. Aziraphale considered the answer a moment before deciding to be completely honest.

“No.” Both in that he didn’t expect to find the mother here and that he didn’t hope he would. Even if Laodice could trace her lineage back to Bathsheba herself, it would not convince him that any of her offspring was the one he was looking for. It was a failing, he knew, but he couldn’t convince his heart of what his mind must know.

“Aaah.” She relaxed in an instant right from her shoulders down. Even the veil fell away a bit. “I am relieved. _Baba_ thought it might be me.”

“It is not you, my dear,” he said. “No need to worry.”

Fereshteh may be worthy and she may even be of the house of David, who knew? But virginal she certainly was not. Still her relief disturbed him somehow.

“Is it really such a horrid task?” It wasn’t something that had occurred to him before, but he knew child birth and rearing only in the vaguest sense of the word. “I mean surely it would be a blessed child. Surely a momentous occasion.”

“An occasion is a moment and a child becomes a man. A woman who is chosen to walk with God must walk with God all of her days. There is no room for others in that life, and I would be forced to leave the ones that I love behind.”

“Forced? Surely not.”

“Oh?” She smiled at him from under her lashes. “Would your god ask?”

“I—” Would She? It was an interesting question. Certainly there were Choices, but they were usually Do as Your Told or Suffer the Consequences. Which he supposed the Almighty knew Best, though would it truly be the same in this situation? It was not as if refusing was a sin. Was it? He had no idea and he knew there was no one to ask.

“God would not ask,” said Fereshteh, amused. “Nor should he. Nor should a humble woman deny such a request. It would mean pulling her family to the highest reaches of power and wealth…and sorrow.” Her smile grew fainter. “It is what _Baba_ wants. He dreams of rooms with _ten_ -thousand colonnades, but I am glad we will remain as we are. We are not hungry here, we do not want, we have family and friends and opportunity. Love.” She added as Arif was looking at her. He smiled at her and she returned it. She moved to his side and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Here we have all we need,” she said.

Perhaps that was why a virgin was chosen. There would not be other sons or daughters or husbands to leave behind. Yes, there were perhaps parents and sisters and brothers to leave, but that seemed to be expected of women these days. Things had changed. Things were always changing.

“I hope you pass many happy days here,” he said.

“And I hope you find who you are seeking,” she replied.

“I’m not entirely sure I will.”

“Then perhaps you must look inside first.” She put a hand to her chest. “For if your God will speak, that is where you will hear.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the Almighty would not, that an angel didn’t have the still small voice, but if She Spoke it was rather louder and more commanding. At least these days. And he _certainly_ wasn’t about to disobey orders and go to Judah instead of the court of Laodice. However, who knew _where_ he would find a place to contact heaven after he’d discerned the Mother of God wasn’t there? He may have to travel all the way to Judah to inform them, and if he were there anyway, there was no harm in having a look around.

“You seem pleased,” said Fereshteh. “That is good. I have a feeling it’s going to be a wonderful new year.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale smiled and settled back. “Yes, it will be.”

He couldn’t say why, but now that he’d settled on this idea he suddenly felt lucky.

*~*~**~*~*

Of course the problem with luck, Aziraphale thought, was that sometimes the good or bad of it could be ambiguous until the situation resolved. He had not so much made it to Judah as been fairly _pulled_ to Judah to accompany Gabriel for the Annunciation of the prophet to be called Yohanan. One would think the Archangel would be better prepared, but perhaps he had been busy trying to find the Blessed Mother and so Aziraphale had brought him up to speed on the current language, customs, and had spent a few frantic weeks engaging in preparing a showy entrance. Of course it should have to be showy for sometimes humans needed to be hammered over the head to understand the Importance of a Situation, but it might have been easier if Gabriel hadn’t been so Blessedly cross throughout the whole ordeal.

He supposed the Archangel couldn’t be blamed considering the situation in which they were rapidly finding themselves. They had no idea where the Mother was, no idea where to look, he had even heard rumors of angels being sent overseas to ask the peoples and nations there. And perhaps the Mother would come from one of those lands, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder if they were overlooking something important, or maybe even thinking about it too hard.

He tapped his fingers together anxiously, waiting across the street from the temple of Jerusalem, where he’d been told. From where he stood he could just see the going’s on in the temple courtyard. There stood Zacariah and the other men of his community prickling with excitement. Zacariah had been chosen on this day of Yum Kippur to be given an honor among his people. There, when alone with no one but himself and the Most High, would also be Gabriel to tell him the Good News.

They had already told Zacariah’s wife, Elisheva, a few moments ago, though Gabriel had not been entirely happy with that little suggestion. For him the News should go to the Most Important as he didn’t have the Time. Aziraphale had, possibly unwisely, reminded him that the Mother would be found in the appointed time and he was quite surprised the Archangel hadn’t struck him. Instead he felt as if he had finally crossed a line. The days after this would be long and difficult he had a feeling, but if they were he deserved no better.

It seemed to be starting already as the moment he thought this, a horsefly with unmitigated gall bit the the back of his neck. He swatted at it ineffectually and was just searching the air to give it a well deserved if gentle smiting when a voice said:

“Hallo, Aziraphale!”

That demon, that fiend, Aziraphale thought as he fought to rearrange his face. It would be much easier to resist his charms if he stopped sounding so pleased just to see him. It was after all a trap, a deceit, a temptation, trying to lure him onto the path of wickedness. Not that he would be so lured but it would also help if he could stop smiling like a fool.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, glancing at the demon’s ensemble. He… or she? At the moment? Was dressed wholly in a feminine style of the Persian court. A long black dress, folds at the top draping diagonally over the bust to dangle near the thin black belt. A black band that winked with dark gemstones sat on her head and held in place a fairly translucent black veil that did little to hide the abundance of red underneath it.

“Just passing through,” Crawley said unconvincingly. “Probably not a good idea as the locals are _cagey_ today.”

“It is a bit of a holy day here, Crawley.” Said Aziraphale.

“Ah. Makes sense.” She stepped a bit closer to him, bringing with her the faint scent of hibiscus flowers.

“Is that perfume?”

“Thought I’d try it out,” said Crawley, rubbing her hands together. “Do you like it?”

Aziraphale leaned in a little and took a sniff. There must have been some residual holiness left in him for Crawely went rigid.

“I can’t say that I do like it,” said Aziraphale leaning away to give him some air. As he rather _did_ like it but admitting as much would be absolutely unthinkable.

“Oh well, can’t please everyone.”

There was a moment of silence and then Crawley said:

“That star is growing _huge._ _”_

“Yes it is, rather, isn’t it?”

“I’m guessing that means it’s soon. Son of God? Any day?”

“Lord knows.” Since certainly no one else did. “I’ve checked every court from here to Baekje. You would think the Mother of the Son of God would be a little easier to find.”

“Could be THEY changed THEIR mind.”

“Doubtful.” He sighed, clasping his hands loosely in front of him. “Perhaps She is testing my faith.”

“Why in hell would THEY want to do that?” said Crawley, sounding more annoyed than unbelieving. “You’re an angel. You either have faith or you’re neck deep in lava.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean we get to stop trying.”

“Imagine having to try for all eternity,” Crawley muttered. “I think I prefer the lava.”

“And so you shall receive it,” said Aziraphale. It was harsh perhaps, but also true. Another silence rose between them, this a bit more chilly. Honestly, Aziraphale wasn’t sure why Crawley was hanging around. She’d gotten the answer that she came for, which wasn’t much of an answer but the best he could provide at the moment.

“Well at the appointed hour,” said Aziraphale with a sigh. “At the appointed time. And likely by a better appointed than I.”

“Who is better than you at finding the scum of the earth?” said Crawley. It wasn’t quite a compliment but it sounded like one and his cheeks pinked at that show of faith. It was such a rare and secret thing coming from the demon and perhaps she hadn’t quite realized what she’d said for she looked stunned when Aziraphale smiled at her.

“You _fiend_.” A dove somewhere nearby cooed in reply and Crawley swallowed and turned her attention back to the temple.

“If you ask me I think you’d find her somewhere you’re not expecting. I mean, if you’re looking for a conqueror ten to one you’re going to find them at court. But if you’re looking for a King or even a leader… Most of the time THEY like to hide the leaders away. Look at Moses for example.”

“He was at court for quite a while.”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t _born_ there, was he?”

“…That’s true.” Perhaps they had been looking in the wrong places after all. Perhaps the answer was to be found somewhere else. Somewhere more ancient than the wealth of the noble born. He took a breath to ask Crawley if she had any ideas when a ripple of power flowed through him and raised the hairs on the back of his neck in a vaguely pleasant way.

“Sshit,” Crawley growled. “What was that?”

“Gabriel manifesting, I imagine,” Aziraphale said. “He should be done soon and will likely want to come have a word with me.”

“Come…here?” said Crawley, sounding just this side of terrified.

“Well naturally. This is where he told me to wait-Oh!” If Gabriel found Crawley here—! Here on this day—! Here on this hour—! Or anywhere at all—!

The demon was already on the move, lifting her skirts and darting away. She’d never get far enough on foot! Gabriel, manifested with holy power, would sense her without a doubt!

There was only one thing to do.

Aziraphale charged after her before she could get too far, grabbing her around the middle. The demon writhed like a worm on a hook and it was nearly impossible to keep a grip on her.

“Shit! Fuck! Shit! Fuck!”

“Stay still, damn you!”

Crawley went straight as an iron spear. Aziraphale grabbed her by the front of the belt, hoisted her into the air then charged three steps forward and hurled her skyward with as much strength as he could muster. The demon shot through the air in a streak of black, rising higher and higher, the viel tearing free and adding the flame of red. Some people in the street looked and pointed upwards. Aziraphale watched her until she disappeared from sight, hoping her landing wasn’t too difficult, then returned to where he’d been designated to stand.

The timing proved to be fortuitous as Gabriel arrived only a moment later, appeared was more accurate, as sudden as a lighting strike and making him jolt.

“O-oh h-hello!” he said, clasping his fingers together and trying not to appear suspicious. ”How did it go.”

“Humans,” Gabriel spat, his eyes a stormy violet. “Here I am, an Angel of the Lord, Fully Manifested— _Fully Manifested_ , Aziraphale— with no time to spare on some side project, and _he_ has the audacity to say he doesn’t believe me because his wife is old. I don’t care if his wife is old. I don’t care if his wife is _dead_. All things are possible with the Almighty and if he doesn’t believe _that_ then maybe he’s not worthy of the _gift_ he’s _getting_.” He snorted and straightened his robes. “Anyway, he’s not going to be saying anything at all for a while.” Gabriel peered at him. “Why do you look like you’re about to discorporate.”

“I was… just…surprised by the …er…unexpected consequence of …your manifestation,” he said with a nervous laugh.

“Unexpected consequence?” Gabriel echoed. Then as Aziraphale scrambled for a feasible explanation, waved his hand. “Never mind. I don’t care. We have work to do.”

“About that!” Aziraphale said to Gabriel’s suddenly turned back. He swallowed as the Archangel’s shoulders tensed, but nevertheless persisted. “I was…erm…just wondering if I could take…oh…” he shook his head, pinching finger and thumb together. “Just the _tiniest_ bit of time to search the environs? Just in case.”

Gabriel’s hands turned to fists and Aziraphale faintly wondered just how much he was going to regret this. Then the angel heaved a great sigh. “Fine. _Fine_. You can search every hovel in Judea if you want.” He turned on Aziraphale, a hairsbreadth from jabbing him in the nose with his accusing finger. “But when this is over _we are going to have words_.” His voice was positively laced with menace.

In a winking of an eye he was gone and Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief.

Well, it wouldn’t be so bad, he reasoned. At worst he would be demoted and at the very worst he would be sent to the On High to explain his actions. She would determine his fate from there and he would accept whatever She gave him, for good or ill, but he doubted it would get that far. For now, the search continued. At least, he thought, watching a line of thin donkeys being lead by a road weary family, he knew where to start.

*~*~**~*~*

Six months later and Aziraphale found himself somewhat weary. It was not a physical weariness, nor a mental one; rather something almost spiritual. It was a strange weariness in other ways too. Though the days rolled by slowly under the hot sun and the star grew ever brighter at night, he felt as if he could keep on going. Perhaps it was akin to the feeling caravan leaders felt after a long journey, pushing their beasts and men through the night because the thin film of their city or town or village had appeared on the horizon.

He had been heading west from the Galilean Sea for some time and was now in the gently rugged mountains heading for— well— wherever. He had a staff in his hand and could feel the hard packed earth under his sandals. He felt the sun on his brow and the wind blow through the trees and the low srubby bushes. Every once in a while he would stop by a town or village or shepherds guarding their flock in the hills and would be invited in to share food or drink. In turn he shared tales and stories of his journey- Though not where he was going or what he hoped to find there.

Instead he remained a mystery and listened instead to their stories, to their rumors, to their prophecies. The star in the East excited them, some in joy, some in anxiety or fear, some a strange contentment. Unhappy were those that found all three of those emotions had come to roost. There was talk from of the ancient days of a Messiah. Someone that would save their people from Herod or the Roma or the the ills that plagued them. Someone that would save the world. Someone that would save them spiritually. Someone that might not save anyone at all and might not even come to be.

It didn’t necessarily follow that the Mother would be found here, of course. There were many peoples with stories of messiah’s and saviors and hopes and dreams. But, Aziraphale was slowly beginning to realize that it didn’t matter. The Almighty may have sent them on a bit of a hunt and find, but She would certainly not wait on them if She didn’t wish to. And if She had wanted them to work quickly, She would have given them greater direction. 

He was beginning to think that perhaps, She wanted to work slowly as She had in the ancient days. Oh yes She could be slow to act, but when she did act it was within an instant. Perhaps this time She wanted to create, to send her angels among the people to see what they could see and hear what they could hear and do what they could do. Perhaps some of Her deep love for the world and the people in it was surfacing from the bottomless well of Her mind.

One could only hope.

For now he walked, for now he searched without searching, walked without purpose, loved without thought .

And so it was, on the first day on the seventh month, the sun climbing its way up the eastern sky, Aziraphale found himself at gentle rise, looking at a nearby village cupped into the gentle shallow bowl of a valley. It was as nondescript as any of the villages he had visited, yet Aziraphale found himself looking forward to it and the simple cuisine these rural villages provided. Perhaps there would be baked fish wrapped in grape leaves, or a lovely lambs stew, or cheese curds and hysopp—delicious!

He had just stepped over a rut in the road when he heard faint voices caught on the wind, lifted in song. Curiosity turned him from his path and off the road. Here was another beaten track, not quite so beaten as the one he followed. It wound a sinuous and yet easy way through the trees and down the eastward slope where a happy little brook bubbled and tumbled in its courses. A group of women had gathered on the village side shore of it, singing to themselves as they scrubbed laundry or beat it on the rocks or wrung it out and spread it in the sun to dry.

“ _Kerov rachameca mechey fasai_

_Kerov rachamena machey fasai_

_Kerov rachamena machey fasai_

_Choneni, Elohim_ ,” they sang in rounds, each picking up the last. Some of their voices were good, some magical, one young dimpled woman couldn’t carry a tune in a wash tub, but no one seemed to mind it. Aziraphale came to the bank of the stream, making sure to stay in the light so he wouldn’t appear alarming. One or two of the younger women ducked away shyly but the rest sang on, curiosity or surprise or strange challenge in their faces. Aziraphale waited until they had finished and said:

“That was quite lovely.” And it was, if not technically perfect. “Do you mind if I rest my feet in your stream?”

“It is not our stream,” said the oldest of the women, dark hair shot with gray, brown eyes amused. “If you have to ask, take it up with the one who made it.”

“I think it should be fine,” said dimples. “As he is a guest.” Those dimples deepened. “So long as he doesn’t make a habit of it.”

“Hsst! The both of you!” said a mother with a baby on her back. “Do not shame our village with such carefree talk!” Her expression was stern when it turned to Aziraphale, but she gestured to the brook with a rough hand. “Sit and take your repose as you choose. It may not be our stream but we are the guardians of it as it passes by.”

“Thank you, I shall.” Aziraphale took off his sandals and sat on a convenient stone that soon found itself to be soft as a cushion. When the initial shock wore off it accepted its fate with equanimity and a dash of pride. “And your village should fear no shame for you. You all seem quite dear.”

“You haven’t seen _Holto_ on threshing day,” said one of the younger girls, perhaps no more than thirteen or fourteen, her eyes bright and curious.

“Hsst!” more of the women hissed. The mother colored and the oldest woman splashed water at the younger and also dimples who laughed.

“Where do you come from?” said the youngest girl. “Your hair is so white! Like a sheep!”

“Your skin is so pale,” said a soft faced woman with a frown. “Are you ill?”

“I think he is from the moon.” Added another. “Or perhaps lives in the clouds. See how blue his eyes are? Like the dome of the sky.”

It was not the first time he had been described thus, though he couldn’t help but frown at some of it. His hair was _not_ like a sheep! It was softer for one thing and far more pliable than wool, and was less pure white then very very pale gold filtered through.

“Hush now,” said the oldest woman. “Don’t speak as if he’s only here to entertain you.”

“Please ignore the rudeness of our daughters,”added the mother. “Strangers are unusual enough and when they do come, resemble their fathers and brothers.”

“Think nothing of it. I have been called a bit of a spectacle in my time.” He pursed his lips in mock arrogance. “And I don’t mind the odd entertainment.”

“Good,” said dimples. “Tell us a story while we work.”

“Did you not hear what was said?” said the mother.

“Of course,” said dimples. “A stranger wishes to entertain and we will not detain him.”

“I want to hear what the moon is like,” said the youngest girl.

“Or the star….” The soft face woman folded her hands together, tucking them under her chin as she gazed skyward. “Surely he knows of it if he comes from the clouds.”

“Do not feel condemned to their flights of fancy. Children and brides are dreamers,” said the oldest woman, nonetheless amused. “Who could not find the ground with their own two feet.”

The soft faced woman looked down cast, the youngest girl gasped and pouted, muttering that she was a woman grown and dimples only dimpled, shooting Aziraphale a challenge with her dark eyes.

“I don’t know much about life among the clouds alas,” he said. “And the star…well there are many stories about it. I’ve been searching for the answers for those stories.”

“A star won’t tell you,” said dimples. “But a woman can.”

The mother clicked her tongue. “If you speak to your husband with such a mouth!”

“It is an omen!” said the youngest girl. “Of a messiah! Or a prophet!”

“It means good things are coming,” said the soft faced woman. “A blessing.”

“It means that young women have big ears and too much time to play,” said the mother. The baby began to fuss and the mother cleansed her hands and retreated into the shadow of the trees.

“It means…” said dimples, then paused. Another woman had come down the slope to join them. She was robed and veiled, face shadowed, her hands palsied and crooked with age despite her easy gate. The women watched her with a strange unease and shared glances with one another. Even the baby stopped crying. Only the brook burbled and birds called almost unnaturally loud in the trees above.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale to break the tension. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The woman said nothing, but pulled her dark clothes from the burden on her back and began to scrub them in the stream bed. The world seemed to take a breath and after a moment the soft faced woman went to the old crone’s side.

“ _Savta_ ,” she said. “Grandmother, let me help.”

The crone did not acknowledge her but did not push her away either as she gathered up a dark cloth. The other women did too leaving their own washing to the side. Aziraphale smiled, the effervescence of love here like little bubbles under his skin. His toes even curled under the water in an effort to not beam at them too widely or allow even the faintest glow of manifestation, though goodness! How could one bear it?

“The star means,” said dimples, taking a long dress between her own rough hands. “That we should wait and watch with an open heart and an open mind. Who knows what will come of it if anything? Maybe it’s just a thing of beauty made for us to admire.”

“You are so practical,” said the soft faced woman, her voice hushed, close to tears. “I think it’s a miracle. It’s a sign. It means Elohim is with us.”

Aziraphale’s heart rose in his throat. It was all he could do not to rise to his feet and embrace the soft faced woman. Her words echoed the ones of the prophecy that Crawley had recited so long ago. The Lord is with us. Elohim is with us.

Could it be—?

Could _she_ be—?

Had he really found—?

No. He had to wait. He had to watch. He had to take care not to misunderstand.

“Elohim is with us,” whispered the youngest girl.

“Blasphemy,” called the mother from the shadows.

“It is not our right to speculate,” said the oldest woman. “That is to the priests and the rabbis and the wise men.”

Aziraphale longed to say that perhaps the soft faced woman was right. To tease out this idea, this dream to bring that soft faced woman to full light because he knew— he _knew—_ that this was it.

That she was the one.

She _had_ to be.

“We don’t have to speculate, we already know,” said dimples. “Elohim _is_ with us.”

“Hsst!” snapped the mother.

“In the air! In the sun! In the grass and the trees and the wool of the sheep and the minds of men! The scorpion’s sting and the hawk’s cry.” She rucked up her skirts and began to splash in the stream. “In the _wet!_ ” she said, kicking up a splash of water, making the other women laugh and shriek. She laughed too.

“You—” said the mother, coming back into the light. A scrap of cloth that had been tucked into the baby’s blanket dropped to the ground.

“In the smile of an infant,” said dimples, picking up the cloth and tucking it back in. “The heart of a mother.” She touched the woman’s face. The mother turned away, something like grief lingering there. Dimples for a moment seemed to grieve with her, then turned to him and smiled. “And the kind indulgence of a stranger.”

“And perhaps—” She continued as she began to walk along the edge of the shore. “The Messiah, as our wise Rivkah has mentioned many a time.”

“The wise Rivkah thinks that you are also very wise,” said the youngest girl.

“Thank you,” said dimples.

“Would you say that to the messiah?” said the soft faced woman sounding somewhat disapproving. “That he _might_ have some divinity?”

“Oy vey,” the oldest woman muttered.

“Of course not.” Dimples pursed her lips and began to pace the other way, hands behind her back, legs swinging in exaggerated arcs. “If the messiah does come to us. I will be the first to meet him, and lift his face thus…” She lifted the oldest woman’s chin.

“Miriam, I will push you into the stream,” the oldest woman said, trying not to laugh.

“I will lift his face thus,” said dimples as if she hadn’t heard. “And say unto him: ‘and just _who_ on _Earth_ are _you_?’”

“You would not treat him with fear and reverence?” said the soft face woman. She shook her head. “Let us hope he does not come unto us then.”

“If he did come unto us, I would treat him as I would any child of the village, as if he were a child of my own.” She frowned and leaned against the older woman who put arm round her legs. “Who can save the people but one who has lived among them? Who can know justice but one who has learned it? Who can know greatness but one who has found humility? I think that in order to rule he must learn to serve, and in order to serve, he must first learn to love.”

Kneeling by the streambed, the old crone began to cackle.

In the blink of an eye, the world began to tilt on its axis, the sky spun, the ground trembled, the oceans roared in a laugh as the winds blew from all quarters, buffeting them as the trees swayed madly back and forth. The sun danced and clouds were thrown apart as music ran ragged crescendos . Aziraphale had the sense of the crone rising, her sleeves like wings, like the night, like the void, swimming with stars, like the last breath like, the first seed tucked into its shell.

He could see the hand reaching for the young woman crabbed and elegant and young and old and perfect and gentle and cruel.

He could hear the _WORDS_ coming from a distance, thundering like a thousand chariots, a freight train, the engine of a rocket, the sucking roar of the great black pools in which even silence ceased to be. Reality was starting to shake loose and uncurl in striking golden strands, the sacred chord trembling with strain.

_It was too much_.

“ _Stop_!” Aziraphale cried, thought, flung as hard as he could like a starling in a hurricane. “ _Please!_ ”

In the whirling maelstrom, the crone seemed to turn and he saw

He blinked at the sunlit day. The water running cold. The birds singing in the blue sky. There was something in the water, something pale and strange. _Fish_ he thought. Then. _Feet._ His feet. His hands. Himself staring back. Oh yes. Aziraphale. He shook his head , coming back to himself all at once.

The women were on the ground, prone, sleeping, but alive. The baby as well. Only Miriam stood, her eyes wide, tears streaking down her face as she shook like a leaf in the wind, hand pressed against her cheek, her brows knotted.

Oh dear.

He approached her.

She made a sound like a frightened fawn and stumbled back, nearly falling. Her mouth opened but no sound came out as her lips trembled.

“ _FEAR NOT._ _“_ He pressed his own lips together as the hundred _voche_ poured from his mouth and echoed in the air. Oh bless it! he had Manifested. Fully even. He reigned it in as best he could, but it was like trying to pack too many clothes into a too small chest. The metaphorical hinges squealed in protest as he metaphorically sat on it.

“Be not afraid,” he murmured,as warm as he could, like honey in the air, like a ancient song, a familiar tune. He stepped up onto the opposite bank, folding his wings behind him and holding out his hands for hers. She took them, swallowing, shaking her head.

“You have been favored,” he told her gently. “You have been seen.”

Even as he spoke, he did his best to soothe the rough edges in her mind, buried deep within her subconscious that what a human could not Know and not have their mind shaken apart.

Gradually it faded, gradually it melted away and for him as well until he could hardly remember what he had just seen—

What _had_ he seen?

Well, never mind. There more important things to attend to.

He wanted to tell her what he Knew, what he Knew with the same certainty as he Knew his own name.

What he Knew of her. Of Who she had been Chosen to Be.

But it was not his Place and they were not his Words and he knew that he would not be able to Say them in the ways she needed to hear.

All he could do now was to let her rest, let her be wholly human for just a little while longer.

He tried to lull her to sleep for now. To let her forget for now. It would seep out, he knew. She would never remember clearly but over the days, the strangeness of it would flow through her and she would Know without Knowing why that Something was to Happen. Or perhaps already had.

She fought against the sleep, her mind trembled and worried like the wings of a butterfly. Aziraphale smiled. He did not know great Words perhaps. They did not form in his mind and tumble from his mouth like jewels. But he knew Words enough from the great and wise and strong and brushed her hair back from her forehead as he laid her gently down.

“Don’t fret,” he said gently, and then in a near whisper that more than her ears could hear. “Elohim is with you.”

She relaxed then, lashes fanned over her cheeks, a small still smile on her face.

She would be fine. They all would be. They would wake up refreshed with no knowledge of what had happened except for a lovely day and a peaceful nap.

They would need their rest for the days to come.

Aziraphale stood and stepped away. There were things to do and Gabriel to speak to.

For now, he cast one lasting glance back, then left Miriam as she lay there, sleeping in a field of flowers. 


End file.
